


Principles of Ecology

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-17
Updated: 2000-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three timelines braided together charting Jim and Blair's life through the transition in their complex relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Principles of Ecology

**Author's Note:**

> _A gift for Geoffrey._

When Jim walked into Major Crimes the morning that Blair returned as a detective, the first thing he saw was the gun. A snub automatic, shiny, firmly tucked into a glossy new holster. 

Blair's gun. 

He was leaning over Henri's shoulder, reading something on the desk. He wore white running shoes, blue jeans, a blue long-sleeved cotton oxford shirt, and the gun. 

Someone said, "Hi, Jim," and he nodded in response, never taking his eyes off his partner. Blair spun around, hair flying. He'd decided to grow it out again and it was at an awkward stage, always in his eyes, too short for a ponytail. Jim reached out and, with one finger, tried to tuck a lock behind an ear. It immediately popped loose. 

"Just like you, Chief," Jim told him, unable to suppress his own smile. "Wild and free." Blair surprised Jim by hugging him tightly; Jim hugged him back, wondering who this man in his arms was. 

"Sandburg! Ellison!" Simon bellowed from behind his desk, and that's all it took. They were partners again, this time for real, for all the world to acknowledge and respect. 

* * *

The afternoon Simon had offered Sandburg a job as a detective, Jim arrived home while he and Naomi were talking. Since they were in Sandburg's room with the doors closed, he at first tried not to hear, but curiosity and concern won out, not to mention Jim found it almost painful _not_ to listen to Blair's voice. He sat at the kitchen table, newspaper and beer in front of him, and let his attention focus on the small room. 

"Sweetie, I understand," Naomi said, but Sandburg immediately replied, 

"Mom, how can I believe you? You raised me, I've known you my entire life, I _know_ how you feel about cops." 

"Yes, about _cops_ , but this is about _you_ , my son. My joy," her voice softened at those last words, and Jim heard the rustle of clothing as Blair hugged his beloved mother. 

"Ma," he sighed, and Jim could hear Blair's hair move as he shook his head, "Oh, ma, what am I gonna do." 

She kissed him and hugged him tighter. "Whatever you want, darling. If you want to be a detective, then be one. You'll be the best ever. But if you don't, then come with me. Travel with me. Be an independent researcher. You can still write and publish, and even teach." 

Jim's heart sped up at Naomi's suggestion, and he held his breath for Sandburg's response, which took a moment to come. 

This time, Blair kissed Naomi; Jim didn't understand how he could _hear_ the difference between kisses, maybe Blair's lips against her soft skin with a thin sheen of make-up produced a different sound than her lipsticked lips against his stubbly cheek, but he heard his friend kiss his mother gently, and Jim closed his eyes even tighter, remembering so very many years ago when he'd last kissed his mother. "Mama," he whispered to himself, and was surprised to hear Blair echo the word. 

"Oh, Mama, I love you so much. But I can't leave here. I can't -- " his voice broke off suddenly, in an excess of some emotion that Jim was unwilling to investigate. 

But Naomi understood immediately. "I know," she said with quiet confidence. "You can't leave Jim." 

There was a sudden intake of breath and Jim heard Blair loosen his embrace of his mother and step back. "What do you mean?" he asked very softly. 

"It's okay," she whispered. "Jim's a good man. I'm glad you love him, and I'm glad he loves you. I don't worry about you anymore." 

Jim was immediately angry. How dare Naomi foist her son's well-being onto him; she's _always_ done that, he understood, found someone someplace to leave him while she went on into her own selfish exploration, her pursuit of her own happiness. You _never_ worried about him, he thought. 

Sandburg laughed, a loving sound. "Ma. You're doing it again. You've found someplace acceptable to leave me behind." 

"No, sweetie! That's not it at all!" 

"It's okay, Ma. I understand. I'm _used_ to it. And you're right. I do love Jim, and he loves me, and we're all happy as birds in a tree." To Jim's surprise, the last words were not said bitterly, but lightly, jokingly, and he heard again Sandburg kiss his mother. "Jim's home. We better get some dinner or he'll turn into a bear." 

"No, wait," Naomi begged. "Blair, I never -- Blair, I always _loved_ you, I still do." 

"Mama." Very patiently, very tenderly, but very firmly. "I know that. I've always known that, even when I was a little kid. This is who you are, and I respect you for it. Just, just don't pretend, okay?" 

Jim could hear Naomi crying now, and Sandburg sighed heavily and put his arms around her again. "Shhh, shhh," he whispered. "I promise it's okay." But she only cried harder. 

Jim couldn't stand it. He didn't know what to do, except he couldn't sit there pretending to read the paper with all that in his head, in his home. Without thinking, he strode over and opened the french doors. Naomi was leaning into Sandburg, crying on his shoulder; Sandburg looked at Jim, who saw exhaustion, annoyance, and a new sadness in his friend's face. Jim put his own arms around Naomi, who turned into them and cried on his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated, and Jim hugged her tighter, rocking slightly. 

Sandburg wiped his eyes, then scratched his neck, pushing his hair back. He put his hands on his mother's shoulders and gently rubbed them until she'd cried herself out. Jim kissed her forehead and then turned her back to face her son, who hugged her. It was a powerful moment for Jim, to have his arms around both his friend and his friend's mother; for Jim, it was as close to being with family as he'd been in more than thirty years. 

Finally, sniffing, Naomi said in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry, boys. I'll never stop being sorry for causing all this pain for you." 

This time Jim said, "It's okay, Naomi. Everything will be okay. If Blair wants to be a detective, he'll be the best detective on the force, and I can't imagine a better partner. He's already the best partner I've ever had, the best cop I've ever known." 

Sandburg looked up at him, past his mother, and Jim saw again the exhaustion and disappointment haunting him. Then he dropped his eyes to Naomi and said, "Can you eat something, Ma? Maybe Italian?" 

"My treat," Jim said immediately. "Please. Let me take you both someplace nice." 

"I just need to wash my face," Naomi agreed, and slipped from their arms to disappear out into the main room. The two men stood watching her, then turned to each other. 

"Chief, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have eavesdropped." 

But Sandburg was shaking his head. "No, no, it's all right. You helped, man." He again looked straight into Jim's eyes. "You _always_ help." 

And that was how it started. Jim took a step closer and put his arms around his friend, whose own arms immediately rose and wrapped around Jim, who hugged him even tighter, more tightly than he'd held Naomi, and breathed in the essence of Sandburg that had become more important to him than oxygen. For long minutes they'd absorbed and given comfort, until Sandburg had gently patted Jim on the back, a signal apparently, because Jim's body understood he needed to open his arm and step away. That was hard, but he promised himself he'd be back, back in the circle of his friend's arms, soon and often. 

Then they went out for Italian, Naomi describing the traffic in Rome as the city prepared for the millennium. 

* * *

Sandburg took the call, so technically he was the lead investigator. Simon was cool, never blinked an eye, just gestured with his unlit cigar, and Sandburg took over. He did everything perfectly, just as Jim knew he would, with the same quiet confidence he'd evinced the times Jim had watched him teach or lead a study group. Jim took his instructions calmly, trying to be as cool as Simon had been, and that set the stage for the others as they got involved. Sandburg's call; Sandburg's case. Jim had to get used to it. 

At the crime scene, Sandburg first spent long minutes with the arriving officer, Kent, Jim thought his name was and confirmed with a long-sighted glance at his name tag. He'd taped the place off properly, posted a couple guards, and began questioning the neighbors, trying to find potential witnesses. Good work, which was lucky for Sandburg; too often, the arriving officers fucked up, out of carelessness, ignorance, or over-enthusiasm. 

The forensics team was there, waiting for Sandburg's instructions as well. Jim watched as he conferred with them, and remembered Sandburg's idea, back when he was still at the academy, that he get a certificate in forensic sciences technology. He should remind Sandburg; he'd be good at it. After this case was closed. He'd encourage his partner. 

Finally, Sandburg was ready for his walk-through. He stared in the open front door of the enormous home, almost a mansion, then looked around for Jim. Spotting him, he lifted a finger and Jim smiled as he immediately went to his partner's side. Wrapped around your finger, he thought fondly, and everybody here knows it. But he remained silent, looking down into Sandburg's familiar face, intense with effort, and waited. 

"I want you to walk through the place with me, Jim," Sandburg said quietly. "You have a lot more experience than I do, and I don't want to miss anything. It's okay to point out stuff; I won't be embarrassed." 

Following his partner inside, Jim though, well, he hit that nail on the head. Jim _had_ been hesitant to do anything that might draw attention to Sandburg's status as a novice. But everyone knew, they'd known him when he was an observer, they'd all seen when he'd repudiated the three years of research he'd been doing, they'd all followed his career at the academy. What the hell. 

Like old times, Jim put his hand on the small of Sandburg's back and gently ushered him into the opulent front room. Sandburg was taking careful notes, making small sketches; Jim watched over his shoulder, impressed with the detail of the recording. As they progressed through the house, each room was carefully described in Blair's tiny handwriting. His lower back felt warm and sweaty; nerves, Jim told himself, and moved his hand to Sandburg's shoulder. He stilled immediately and looked into Jim's face. 

"It's okay, Chief," Jim almost whispered. "You're doing great. Just breathe, okay?" 

Sandburg grinned at him, the old grin from the old days, when he'd been a carefree grad student worried only about the next paper due and the next date scheduled, and Jim had to smile back. He felt a rush of affection for his Blair, entirely inappropriate for one's partner, and the old anxiety came back, too, to twist Jim's stomach with the fear that someone so intelligent, so intense, so fucking volatile would tire and leave him. Sandburg seemed to sense the change in Jim's feelings, so he smiled again and gently patted Jim's hand on his shoulder. Sandburg nodded, and turned back to his work. 

A good cop, Jim thought as he watched; he's gonna be a good cop. 

"Jim," Sandburg called him from the door into an enormous bathroom. "Look at this." In two strides Jim was there, careful not to step on a few small chunks of clear glass. Then he saw inside, and stopped worrying. The floor was mounded with crushed glass, glittering in the harsh fluorescent overhead light. "Where'd it come from?" 

Jim shook his head. The floor length window and three-sided mirror were intact. The shower and tub were freeform, the sprays angled so no shower doors or curtains were needed. No windows in the bedroom had been broken, and the ornate gold mirror over the dresser was still there. "I don't know, Chief," he said softly. "There's our mystery." 

Sandburg nodded, and knelt to look more closely. "Can you smell anything?" he asked, and Jim shut his eyes. 

"Mildew. Dust. Pledge. Shit." 

"Feces shit? Or oh-shit shit." 

"Feces. In the toilet." The lid was closed; they'd leave it for the forensics team. "Let's get outta here; let the team get to work. I'll go over the rooms again when we don't have to be so careful." 

Sandburg stood, staring at the glittery piles of pebbly glass. Jim could practically hear his synapses firing. Then he turned. "Yeah. Let's talk to the neighbors, and find the owner." Jim watched his partner carefully track to the door and out, avoiding touching any surface or object. He's was gonna be a good cop. 

* * *

"Do you want me to come with you?" 

"No, man. Jesus, despite my height, I'm a grownup." 

"Let me rephrase that, Sandburg. I'd really like to come with you." 

Long pause. Blair stared out the glassed door into the hallway outside Major Crimes. Finally, he sighed heavily and said without looking at Jim, "Yeah. Thanks." 

Jim grabbed his jacket and handed Blair's to him. "Come on, Chief. Let's get this over with. Do you know where . . ." But he couldn't finish. Where to go. Where to have this done. Where to change your life even more, more than you ever wanted, more than you ever agreed to. 

After another long pause, Blair pulled his jacket on and shrugged his backpack over his left shoulder. He nodded, but didn't speak, just led the way to the elevator. 

Once the doors slid closed, Blair said, "Neither Hair nor There." At first, Jim couldn't understand what Blair had said, though, because he was focused on Blair's choked voice, his rapid heart rate and respiration, the aura of heat surrounding him, the pain on his face as he resolutely stared at his reflection ahead of him. They rode to the lobby in silence, Jim speaking only after they'd reached the truck and were climbing in. 

"You'll have to give me directions." Blair nodded. 

Neither Hair nor There was actually, Jim thought, a pretty nice place. Not overly feminine, but not a barber shop, either. He might come here himself. Except now it would always be a reminder of Blair's pain, his undeserved humiliation, of the terrible changes in his life. 

A tall, thin, effeminate white man about Jim's age took charge of them, seating Blair in a comfortable chair that he pumped to the right height while he introduced himself as Michael. Then he turned the chair so Blair looked into the mirror. 

"No," he said softly. 

"What is it, sweetie?" 

"I don't wanna watch. Just turn it back the way it was." After a few seconds, Michael twisted the chair back. Jim stood in front of Blair; their eyes were almost at the same level. Blair looked straight into Jim's heart, Jim felt, straight to his soul, and without giving a thought to how it would look in that environment, Jim reached out and took both of Blair's hands in his. Blair smiled, or tried to, and squeezed his hands, then continued to stare at Jim. 

Jim really didn't know what to do. He couldn't tell what his partner was thinking. Jim knew that Blair would have to cut his hair to attend the academy, but he'd managed to avoid thinking about how and when it would happen. He was, he thought, really good at denial. After a moment, he realized he was holding hands with Blair in a public place, but he was a suck-it-up kinda guy and held on tight. Deny any significance to the gesture. He tried not to let his eyes wander behind Blair, where Michael was working, but it was almost impossible. 

The ponytail came off first, all at once. Michael carefully tied it at one end and lay it gently on the counter behind him. Then he fluffed out Blair's remaining hair and began snipping, at first big chunks, and then smaller ones. Occasionally he squirted at Blair with a spray bottle of something that smelled slightly sweet to Jim, and then would start cutting again. 

It took almost thirty minutes before Michael was happy. He walked around to Jim's side, not pushing him away, to work on the front. Jim smiled slightly; he appreciated Michael's sensitivity, leaning over their joined hands to do his work. When he was through, he stood back. 

Blair's eyes were dry, Jim discovered, but his were damp. It was Blair, but different. He looked both older and younger. Instead of beautiful, he looked handsome. He looked sensitive and intelligent and observant. His large eyes appeared larger, his face thinner, his cheekbones more pronounced. He had, Jim noticed, a very slight double chin. Jim found this feature almost unbearably touching. 

"Do you want to see now?" Michael asked, but Blair just shook his head. 

"Is it okay?" he asked Jim, who nodded and turned to Michael. 

"You did a good job." Michael smiled, and handed Jim the ponytail. He reluctantly let go of Blair's hands to take it, and held it awkwardly, as if it were a small living thing, then ran his fingers down its length. It was softer than it looked; the curls weren't coarse at all, but gentle corkscrews and waves. Michael then handed Jim an envelope, and Jim slipped the ponytail inside and tucked it in his jacket's inside pocket. "Okay, Chief," he said. "Do you wanna go out to dinner, or just go home?" 

"Home," Blair said succinctly, and without ever looking in the mirror, took off the white apron, left it in the seat of the chair, picked up his backpack and jacket and headed to the cashier. 

"I'll get this," Jim insisted, and left a five dollar tip for Michael's kindness. Then he put his hand on Blair's shoulder and steered him to the truck. 

As they entered the loft, Blair said, "I'll have to see it sometime." 

Jim smiled. "Yeah. But Blair, it really looks good." 

Blair snorted. "You would say that, you big butch ex-military cop, you." After Michael's mannerisms, that cracked up Jim, who pulled two beers from the fridge, twisted their caps, and handed one to Blair. 

"To the new you," he toasted, almost afraid of the effect of his words, but Blair grinned back at him. 

"The new me," he said, and swallowed thirstily. "Okay, let's look," he said, wiping his mouth, and Jim followed him into the bathroom. 

For a long moment they stood there: Blair at the sink, Jim at the door, both staring into the toothpaste-spattered mirror that Jim silently vowed to clean that night. Blair took another long drink of beer, then twisted his head, trying to see the back. "Here," Jim said, and pulled a smaller mirror out from one of the drawers. Blair held it behind him, then turned and looked into it to see his reflection in the larger mirror. 

"Jesus, Jimmy, I don't think I've seen the back of my neck in ten years." 

"It's a very nice back of the neck," Jim said, only half joking. Blair looked up at him, over the small mirror. 

"Thank you for coming with me." Jim nodded and took another sip. 

"Hey, had to make sure you did it right. Been so long, you know, you mighta got confused." Blair rolled his eyes but smiled, and set the little mirror down. 

"I'm gonna write Naomi." Jim let him slip past and watched him go into his bedroom, leaving the french doors open. He looked so different, so vulnerable. Jimmy, Jim thought. He called me Jimmy. I wonder if that's what he calls me in his head, when he thinks about me. Jimmy. 

Jimmy decided to keep the envelope of hair until Blair asked for it. 

* * *

The night before the academy, Jim had wanted to take Sandburg out to dinner, but he begged off. Jim knew that the police academy was a piss poor substitute for the academic honors his friend deserved, but he wanted Sandburg to be -- well, not quite as disappointed as he seemed to be. So he didn't insist, but instead had fired up the little grill on the balcony and they'd had hamburgers, and potato salad from the deli down the street, beer, and ice cream for dessert. 

Compulsively scrubbing the grill later, Jim had used his hearing to track Sandburg around the loft. Boxes of his possessions from Rainier had slowly been emptied and discarded, along with much of their contents. A box to go into the basement sat near the front door, half full. Sandburg seemed to be walking around looking at things -- his stuff, Jim's stuff, the stuff from Rainier -- not settling down, not saying anything, not touching it, just looking. 

Finally, Jim rinsed the grill and sat it to dry in the dish drainer, wiped his hands and the counter, and followed Sandburg into his bedroom, where he was staring at the books above his desk. He didn't acknowledge Jim's presence, just stood there, hands hanging at his sides, face expressionless. 

He was more rested, now, after several weeks away from both Rainier and the station. He'd turned into Jim's ideal of a roommate: kept things clean and tidy, did the grocery shopping, made most of the meals. Jim ached for the scattered, exhausted whirlwind he'd spent much of the last four years with; this quiet, organized man before him slightly intimidated him. 

But Jim remembered the night Naomi had left, how he'd held Sandburg and how Sandburg had clutched him back and, gathering his considerable courage, he put out his hands like a blind man and stepped to Sandburg's side. 

As if he'd been waiting for Jim, Blair turned and sank into his embrace, resting his face against Jim's shoulder and neck, tightening his arms around Jim's chest and back. Jim could feel the warm, moist breath on his throat and shivered, with pleasure and with a kind of fear, but he hugged him back as tightly as he was hugged, and again they stood entwined. Jim felt that same homecoming sensation, something he desired now, in the way he desired to go home at the end of a long and tiring day. He felt filled by Blair's very existence, and wondered at this rather surprising need to hug his male roommate. 

He wondered if it were just the circumstances they'd found themselves in, or if it were Blair himself who triggered this desire. He wondered if it were genetic, if the same genes that had burdened him with his extraordinary hearing and vision and sense of smell also compelled him to stay close to his Guide. When his mitochondria divided, did they seek Blair? When his RNA replicated, did it seek Blair? He could almost believe his need was at a cellular level, far below even his ability to discern and identify, yet as compelling a pull as the moon on the earth. 

When he felt Sandburg pat him on his back, he knew it was time to step away again. He shut his eyes tightly, to squeeze back the tears brought by the thought of releasing his Guide. Without conscious thought, he pressed a kiss into Blair's left temple, sighed heavily, and let his friend go. 

"Better shower," Sandburg said without looking at him, and pulled his robe off the hook behind the closet door. Jim nodded, and watched him walk away. 

* * *

Blair lay in bed, one arm above his head, staring at the ceiling but seeing the faces of his new classmates at the police academy. Twenty-five, he'd counted, from all over the Puget Sound region. Schlereth stood out the most; tall, white, skinny, and loud. He'd given Blair the eye; Blair wondered if that was due to his size or if Schlereth had heard about his academic fraud. Schlereth and Alpert were already friends, or maybe had been before. Alpert was shorter than Schlereth but still significantly taller than Blair, and big, bigger than Jim. Bulked out like a weight-lifter, with an impassive face. 

Fridell seemed okay. Blair hoped he might be a study partner. He was Jewish, too, and dark, although another big guy. Still, he'd been passing friendly to Blair, and that counted for a lot these days. 

Two women in the class had stood out to Blair; something about their demeanor, although they couldn't be more different. Kathy Aptos was a tall thin black woman, no doubt a basketball player. She looked serious, with a quiet intensity. He felt a little intimidated, and not just by her size. 

Macintosh was nearer his size and stereotypically pretty: big blue eyes, almost as blue as Jim's, with long milk-white hair worn in a thick braid down her back. She was sturdy, though, muscular in both her arms and legs. She, too, looked very serious. 

The others in his class weren't clear to him yet; no doubt they would be. But nobody had spit at him, something he'd been secretly worried about. In his worst fantasies, he was shunned, no one looking at or speaking to him, no one acknowledging his existence at all. He didn't think he could survive twelve weeks of that, not even to be Jim's partner, but fortunately, that wasn't the case. People met his eyes, some even smiled and said hi, which was enough for the first day. Schlereth, now, he might be a problem, but then, he wouldn't be at the academy unless he wanted to pass, so he'd be on his best behavior and then posted to Spokane or Astoria or Vashon Island. 

The curriculum actually looked interesting. And much of it was familiar to him, after running after Jim for four years, typing up his paperwork, doing the filing, brainstorming with him. He knew he'd do okay in the academic part of it. Defensive driving, not a problem, surely, after watching Jim crash various police vehicles. Physical fitness, he'd never been fitter. Firearms, now, he was, well, not _worried_ about, but concerned. He'd held Jim's gun, pointed it at people; he'd fired it, and even fired an automatic once, though never _at_ anyone. He wanted to be good at it. He wanted to be Jim's backup. In another shameful fantasy, he'd rescue Jim, firing like Dirty Harry, bang bang bang, and all the bad guys would fall down dead and he'd untie Jim and they'd hug and he'd be a hero. When he really thought about it, though, it was too distressing to imagine pulling a lever that would cause a small metallic object to fly rapidly through the air with enough force to pierce the clothing and skin of another human being and lodge in or even pass through their internal organs, causing significant structural damage. Or death. 

He rolled over. He didn't like that fantasy much, imagining the bullet flying through a body. He wanted to talk to Jim about it, but was afraid of appearing a pussy. He knew Jim wouldn't think that; Jim never said things like that, he didn't even think the word "pussy" was in Jim's vocabulary, and he knew Jim respected him, but _he_ didn't respect his fears, _he_ thought he was a pussy to be afraid of the logical consequences of using a gun, so he kept quiet, worrying and having this terrible fantasy. 

Last night, Jim had barbecued for him and they'd been close. Blair loved Jim's gestures; they spoke louder than any words ever spoken to Blair. But tonight, when he'd gotten home from the academy, the loft was empty, a message on the answering machine that Jim had to work late and not to wait up. Blair had made scalloped potatoes and baked ham; a saran-covered dish of it was waiting in the fridge for Jim to microwave when he got home, and Blair had the entire hot water heater's worth for his shower, and then complete control of the tv remote, and the whole loft to bop around in, and all he did was go to bed feeling cold and miserable and sorry for himself. 

He glanced at the clock; almost two a.m. He had to get up in four hours, but it was useless. He sat up, punched his pillow and tucked it behind his back, turned the light on, and pulled out the latest Sue Grafton he'd borrowed from Jim. Kinsey Milhone, now, _she_ didn't lose sleep over her gun. 

Before he read more than a couple pages, he heard the front door unlock. He jumped out of bed and wrapped himself in his robe and blinked at the light in the living room. 

"Oh, sorry, Chief. Didn't mean to wake you." 

He shook his head. "Not a problem, man. Can't sleep. Thought I'd make some tea. Hey, I put a plate in the fridge for you." 

"God, I'm starved. And make me some tea, too, would you? What a night. What a _fucking_ night." He put the plate in the microwave and tapped the control panel. While it was humming, he turned and leaned against the counter, watching Blair fill the kettle and spoon loose tea into the pot. 

"What happened?" 

"Some woman threw her Down's syndrome baby off the Green Street bridge." Blair stopped what he was doing to look at Jim. "No shit. Claimed the baby had fallen. The guys who went down to look for her found her alive. When they told the mom, they said she got angry." 

Blair shook his head. "What about the baby?" 

"She's okay. Can you believe it? I guess they bounce at that age. Poor thing. They brought the mom in and Rafe and I questioned her. She'd tried to give the kid up for adoption last year and then backed out. We turned the baby over to Social Services and booked the mom for attempted murder." 

Blair idly watched the burner under the kettle, adjusting the flames so they wouldn't scorch its bottom surface. "Is the mom okay? Mentally?" 

"Well, she's not Down's, if that's what you mean. But she has to be crazy to do something like that." He sighed heavily. Just then the microwave beeped and he pulled out his dinner. "Thank you, Blair. This helps, having dinner ready, somebody to talk to." 

Blair was embarrassingly moved by Jim's comment. He watched Jim move to the kitchen table, knife and fork in hand, and start eating rapidly. "Hey, we're partners," he finally said, and then, "You wanna beer with that?" 

"Nah. Just the tea when it's ready." 

Four years ago, Blair thought, you'd've had the beer. Now you're drinking my tea, eating the dinner I made, thanking me for being here. He stopped thinking at that point; it was too dangerous for him to go further. But he felt swollen with affection for Jim, and gratitude, and knew that, now that Jim was home, he'd be able to sleep. 

When Jim had finished his meal and was sitting back, thirstily drinking the tea, Blair picked up his dishes and put them to soak. He mopped the counter and swiped the interior of the microwave, then its handle as well. When he turned, Jim was watching him quizzically. Blair said, "Stand up." 

"What? Why?" 

Blair gestured. "Put down the tea, Ellison, and nobody'll get hurt. Just stand up." 

Smiling, but with a puzzled frown on his face, Jim obeyed, stretching his back so Blair could hear his vertebrae popping as he stood. He looked expectantly at Blair, who took a deep breath and stepped in front of Jim, close enough their shirt fronts touched. Blair looked into his friend's tired face and said, "You know the drill, man." Jim's smile grew as profoundly as his face blushed, but he put his arms around Blair. 

They stood hugging in the kitchen for long minutes, drawing comfort from the solid warmth of each other. Blair closed his eyes and tried to imagine being a Sentinel: he listened for Jim's heart, thudding solidly beneath his fuzzy beige turtleneck sweater; smelled Jim's honest sweat, a light overtone of his aftershave, the Ivory Snow the sweater had been washed in, and something under it all that Blair named "Jim." He gently rubbed his cheek against the sweater, feeling his beard stubble catch lightly. Then, in a kind of zone of his own, he opened his mouth and breathed in, trying to catch the molecules he knew Jim was shedding, letting them roll onto his tongue and palate the way a wine taster would. Jim's arms tightened around him and he felt Jim press his head into Blair's temple, and Blair knew Jim was doing the same thing: trying to incorporate Blair. 

Blair began to feel sleepy, for the first time that night, and reluctantly patted Jim's back. They stepped away from each other, keeping their hands on the other's arms. "Go to sleep, Junior," Jim said softly. "You look like hell." 

Blair snorted and patted Jim again, then headed to his bedroom. 

* * *

Waiting in a long line at the drive-through at MacDonald's, between interviews of neighbors and their housekeepers, Blair regaled Jim with stories from his worst travel experiences. "Oh, has to be a flight back from Wilmington, North Carolina. We were waaaay late taking off, so the airlines handed out free booze. Some asshole drank so much he got sick, and then puked in the sink of the john. The attendants tried to clean it up, but it was too much, they had to leave it for the ground crew, which meant there was only one bathroom for a couple hundred passengers. Plus, it stank! Oh my god, the plane _reeked_ of this guy's vomit! I can't believe no one else threw up." 

Jim rolled his eyes. "I can top that, easy. I had to go into the sewer system. Knee-deep, literally _knee-deep_ in shit. Talking about reeking -- thank god it was before my senses had kicked back in. Jesus. Cockroaches the size of mice; rats the size of ferrets. Cockroaches _raining_ on me. The guys who took me down were like, 'oh, just brush them off.' Nooooo . . ." 

Blair laughed at Jim's expression; he was so delicate for such a tough guy. "Bugs, oh no, I can always top you with bugs. I lived in the jungle, remember?" 

"So did I, Junior," Jim replied immediately, and started to describe something he'd seen once in Peru, " _This_ big," he measured with his hands, but Blair couldn't stop laughing, Jesus, he was so happy to be sitting here, with Jim, bullshitting, his favorite form of male bonding, his best friend focused on him, _this_ is why he lives, he knows, _this_ is what it's all about. 

* * *

Jim puzzled over his feelings for Blair. There was a connection between them that drew him daily closer, daily fonder, an undeniable pull he found impossible to resist. He knew he touched Blair more than he touched others, and enjoyed touching him more. Little pats on his shoulder, a gentle back rub, a playful smack on his cheek, usually pink with pleasure at Jim's attention. 

And he knew he let Blair into his personal space more than he'd ever let Carolyn. Always at his side, a familiar presence become dear and then necessary to Jim, his body heat and scent a comfort, his voice a beacon, his compact body a delight. 

Jim puzzled over why this man should call to him so profoundly. At nearly forty, had he found his soulmate? Were there soulmates? Jim wasn't even sure souls existed, yet he felt mated to Blair beyond any ceremony, sacred or profane. 

One dreary afternoon, early in the semester before the dissertation fiasco, home unexpectedly, Jim had found Blair collapsed in sleep in the big yellow chair, bluebooks scattered over him like leaves. A green candle burned low on the coffee table; after years with Blair, Jim knew that green was for healing and luck, for the fourth chakra. Jim had quietly placed his keys in the basket and foregone his usual beer to sit across from him and study his face in repose. Blair's mouth was slightly open, his lips and nose a little chapped from a cold, a slight wheeze in his still-congested lungs. Jim felt compelled to sit quietly, to watch, to be in truth Blair's sentinel, and guard his rest. He felt his heart slow to match Blair's rhythm, and was embarrassed to feel tears prick at his eyes. I love him, he told himself yet again, and lay down on the couch, facing Blair, watching and guarding his friend. 

When he'd woken, Blair was awake and watching him. "Hey," Blair smiled, voice a bit nasal from his cold. 

"Hey," Jim replied, his own voice muzzy from sleep. It was dark out; he'd slept for almost two hours. He struggled to sit up. "What's for dinner?" 

Blair laughed, the best sound in the world to Jim's ears. "Your turn, big guy." 

"Pizza," Jim instantly decided, but Blair had cut him some slack and only rolled his eyes, foregoing any "pie of death" comments. They'd stared at each other for a few seconds, smiling. 

Later, in bed alone, Jim remembered watching his friend sleep, and thought, "There is never enough." Enough of what he could not say. But he knew he wanted more. 

* * *

Blair said, "You leave her alone!" but his voice was thin and high, and Tony laughed at him, and stepped right past him. Blair hated being ignored; he grabbed at Tony, who stopped laughing and backhanded him. He heard Naomi gasp as he stumbled to the glossy hardwood floor, falling hard onto the palms of his hands. Then he heard her cry out and a rustling sound, then something ripping. He twisted around, still on the floor, and saw his mother's pretty blue dress, the one that brought out the red in her hair and the blue of her eyes, had been ripped across the top, and Tony was _touching_ her, his big hand with its dirty fingernails tugging at the white nylon slip still clinging to her. 

"No!" Blair yelled, as loudly as he could, and launched himself at Tony's knees, but he simply kicked him aside, and Blair heard his mama cry out again, this time in pain, and he cried, too: "Mama! Mama, please, Mama," and then someone picked him up and held him and said his name in the most loving tone of voice. His heart began to slow and he fell back into his adult life out of a nightmare that sticks like tar. 

"Blair, Blair," he heard Jim whisper. "Wake up, it's okay, Naomi's okay." 

He pushed himself back, out of Jim's arms, and wiped his eyes. "I know," he finally said, then had to clear his throat. "Thanks. Jesus. That was a bad one." 

Jim didn't answer, just stroked his hair and began rubbing his back in comforting circles. Blair wiped his face again, embarrassed by the relief he felt from Jim sitting quietly on his bed and simply being there. 

"Not all the places Naomi and I lived were very nice, you know," he said at last in a strangled voice. Jim never stopped rubbing. "I, we, sometimes people weren't very nice, either. Like, this one guy, um, tried to _touch_ me, but Naomi had taught me to say no. And Naomi is so beautiful; guys were always hitting on her, and I know she said yes a lot, but she knew how to say no, too. Sometimes . . . " But he didn't want to say anymore; the dream, the memory, was too close. 

To his surprise, Jim encircled him once again. "I'm sorry, Chief." And Blair was content to relax there, sighing heavily, knowing that at that moment, it was okay. Jim was right. It was okay. 

Finally, he awkwardly patted Jim's shoulder and disengaged from the embrace. "Thanks. I'm okay now." He scooted down and allowed himself to be tucked in, laughing quietly and hearing Jim laugh in return. "Your turn, next time." Jim touched him one last time, gently rubbing his right arm and biceps, and then slipped from the dark room. 

Blair lay in the dark, staring at the barely-visible ceiling for a long time. Remembering how helpless he'd felt when Tony had hurt Naomi. To this day, he didn't know if she'd been raped or not; she'd never told him and he never asked. He resolved to do so next time she was in town. And he wondered if somehow all his interest in sentinels and protecting the tribe and taking care of the weaker could have stemmed from a desire to care for his beautiful, frivolous, peripatetic mother. Maybe he had been born to be a cop after all. 

He sighed again, and rolled onto his stomach, scrunching his pillow under his cheek more comfortably. Maybe this police shit would be okay. 

* * *

Jim stood back and observed; remaining silent was easy for him, natural, but he saw that Sandburg was struggling. Not that anyone else could tell; no, only four years of close friendship and constant companionship permitted him to see the slight frown, the narrowed eyes, the clenched teeth. It ran through his mind again that this was their first case with Sandburg as lead. The knowledge made him want to shake his head like dog, like a swimmer flipping water out of a blocked ear; the knowledge was almost painful in its novelty and rawness. 

He knew he'd get used to it; he'd gotten used to Sandburg as an observer easily enough, had come to rely on him in ways he'd never relied on another human being. Not even himself, he thought wryly; after all, he couldn't bring himself out of a zone. But right now, watching Sandburg as he slowly and cautiously moved around the crime scene, careful not to disturb anything, jotting down notes, motioning to the photographer to get another picture from a different angle, he felt burdened by the awareness that he had brought Sandburg to this moment. He felt deeply saddened by that fact, and shamed by both his sadness and the irreversibility of the situation. 

Yet Sandburg was good at this new job. Already he had the attention of the homicide team waiting almost patiently outside. He had good rapport with people, a natural curiosity, astonishing patience for the most surprising things, and was deeply observant. In some ways, Jim felt, Sandburg was born to be a detective. Maybe he had midwifed something good. This thought startled him into a slight motion that caught Sandburg's attention, for he turned his head and raised his eyebrows. Jim shook his head slightly and remained standing, at a sort of parade rest in respect for his partner's abilities. Surprise, surprise, he thought with some pleasure. Maybe this was meant to be. 

Sandburg finally reached the body sprawled across the blood-stained sofa. He stared down at it for long minutes, while Jim remembered how difficult Sandburg found it to be around death and gore, especially in the beginning of their partnership. But he was a different man now. A grown-up, it occurred to Jim, and he smiled a private smile. Blair was grown up. 

Sandburg suddenly knelt and peered closely at the head of the victim, tilting his own head trying to see something. He stood and turned to Vicks and Byers outside and motioned them in. "Listen," he said intently, "there's something in her mouth." The homicide detectives looked first at each other, then back to Blair. 

"Don't mention this to anyone, Sandburg," Vicks cautioned him, and Blair nodded. Jim knew he understood; he could see it in Sandburg's eyes. He'd discovered something the homicide detectives had been keeping to themselves to help identify the killer. "Have you seen what you need?" 

Sandburg nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we're through. Come on, Jim," he added, and headed out into the fresh air, out of the sour room with its mixed smells of stale cooking, perfume, semen, blood, feces, urine, and death. Jim didn't know how badly he'd wanted out until he stood blinking in the sunlight beside his partner, breathing deeply. "Pretty nasty, hunh." 

Jim nodded, knowing that yet again Sandburg understood. 

"What did you see in her mouth?" 

"Glass. Crushed glass." 

* * *

"The only way he got in the Academy is by fucking Ellison." Blair halted at the words; he recognized the speaker as Schlereth, the tall skinny stupid guy. In the next room, mouthing off. 

To his surprise, the next voice was Kathy Aptos'. She snapped, "I don't care if he's fucking the governor; he's smarter than any of us and he's good in the field. He's already a better cop than you'll ever be, asshole." 

Blair heard a scuffling and stepped into the room, in time to see Schlereth and Aptos step near each others, faces in a rictus of anger, bodies held rigidly, ready to clash. "What's up?" he asked mildly, and every head turned toward him. Years of teaching had honed his ability to remain calm in front of groups; this was just like a hostile study group he had TAed years ago, always challenging him, doubting his word, denying his authority. 

For almost thirty seconds everyone stood as they were, then Aptos backed off and Schlereth relaxed. "Nothing," she said. Schlereth snorted rudely, a hacking sound, but didn't speak. 

"Hey, Sandburg," Fridell said finally, "do you have a minute? I wanna go over that table of cops' race and using deadly force. I don't get the significance. Are they saying that white cops are more violent than others?" 

This Blair can do. He can interpret tables, read graphs, analyze analyses, and decipher parenthetical comments till the cows come home. He laughed, and said, "Yeah, I got a minute. Let's go to the cafeteria, though; I need a cup of tea." 

Schlereth mimicked in a nasal tone of voice, "I need a cup of tea," but his buddy, Alpert, elbowed him. 

"Can I come, too, Sandburg?" Alpert surprised him. "I don't like tea, but I gotta figure out that fucking chart." 

"Table," Blair said idly, still processing what just happened. "Yeah, but let's go now. We've only got a half hour till the next class." 

"Oh, shit," Aptos said, rolling her eyes. "It's that fucking pursuit driving thing. Using a car as deadly force." 

Blair laughed. "My partner's got that nailed. You know he's totaled three cars in three years?" Partner. Jesus, he loves that word. He remembers the first time Jim had referred to him as his partner, years ago, to Joel Taggart. And now it was true. Laughing softly, he turned for the cafeteria, Fridell and Alpert beside him. 

As long as Schlereth didn't kill him first, this was gonna be great. 

* * *

A fierce off-shore wind was blowing, and Cascade was unnaturally dry and warm, the earlier rains blown out to sea, and a dull ochre sky hovered over the city. The air tingled against Blair's skin, and he wondered what it felt like to Jim. Smoke and smog blurred the horizon and the enormous mountains that surrounded them into a chiaroscuro. He sneezed, shook his head, and watched his partner. 

The weird weather was throwing Jim off a little, Blair decided. Jim stood, head cocked like a hunting dog, eyes narrowed against the gusts of dry wind, studying the scene before him. A glass factory. Special trucks parked outside, with big frames for holding the glass on. The largest glass factory in western Washington. And out back, Blair knew, were mounds and mounds of crushed glass. 

They weren't going to interview anyone this morning, or even announce their presence. They carefully stayed off the property and just observed from the cracked sidewalk. Blair stepped closer to Jim and placed a hand on his shoulder. Jim glanced at him and nodded, then re-focused his powerful attention on the business in front of them. 

Blair watched him closely, trying to imagine what he was doing. After all these years, all the tests, Jim could still surprise him with the acuteness of his senses. But he would definitely zone out doing something like this, spreading his senses so far and so intently. Blair murmured, "Can you stay focused on the pressure of my hand?" and gently squeezed Jim's shoulder. 

"Your heart," Jim said softly, never taking his eyes off the building. Who knows what he's seeing, Blair thought; probably right through the open door and into a back room. He stood quietly, listening to his own heart, pleased Jim found it a comfort and a control. 

After a good five minutes had passed, neither man having moved, Blair slightly rocked Jim's body. Jim took a deep breath and blinked, then glanced at him. Blair turned him and they walked back to the truck, Blair's hand never leaving Jim's shoulder. Jim gave Blair the keys, and he drove them to a MacDonald's a few blocks away, ordering soft drinks at the drive-through, and parking in the shade at the back. When Jim had drunk half his coke, he sighed and looked at Blair. 

"That was --" He shook his head. "Weird. There was so much glass, so many reflective surfaces. Once I figured that out, I could sort of bounce my sight deep into the factory itself." Blair was impressed; it didn't sound possible to him. "I think that's the place the glass is coming from. We need to get samples and test them against what we've found elsewhere. But I thought I smelled something, maybe an additive to the glass, that was familiar. And there's something else." He took another sip of his drink, frowning. "I don't know, Blair. I can't really articulate what I sensed. But I think that's the place." 

"That's enough. I'll send Rafe in to buy some glass and we'll get it tested. If it matches, we'll have enough for a warrant. You did good, Jim," he said warmly, sincerely, and watched his friend try to hide a pleased smile. 

* * *

Simon said, "Shut the fuck up!" 

Jim lifted his head; Blair was in the evidence locker, or he'd be staring at Jim, recognizing the set of his head in what Blair said looked like a retriever on point. But he had to eavesdrop, he simply had to. Simon's his friend. 

Another man was in with Simon; Jim didn't recognize him, but he didn't like him, or his smell. He didn't like anyone who made Simon sound like that. The other man was silent. 

Just when Jim was ready to return his attention to the stack of paperwork before him that seemed to never diminish, Simon's guest began to speak again, in a low, tense voice. 

"You've gone too far this time, Captain Banks. You've always been one to push the envelope. Police work is a tradition-bound field; we respect and admire conservative, cautious men. We _reward_ such men, with positions of authority and with respect. Yet as you settle into your captaincy, you seem to welcome more extreme innovations. 

"Such behavior is for young men. It is your responsibility to monitor and control this behavior, not exhibit it yourself. I'm speaking to you as one who's admired your work for many years. I dislike and resent being here to investigate you. And I resent you for behaving in such a way as to warrant investigation. 

"I will _not_ cut you any slack, Captain Banks. I will investigate every allegation, ever rumor. I will get to the end of this no matter what it takes." 

Another lengthy pause. Jim could hear Simon's breath; it was labored and whistled slightly through his nose. His heart was racing, and he seemed to be running a slight fever. At last he said, "Do what you have to. But you won't find a thing. Not a thing." 

At that, Simon's visitor jerked open the door and strode past Jim and out of Major Crimes. He was slim, very well dressed in a dark brown suit, and almost as short as Sandburg. He never lifted his eyes from his path to the elevator. 

Jim waited until the strange man was off the floor and then knocked on Simon's open door. "Not now, Jim." 

"Simon." 

Simon tilted his head and studied Jim for a long moment. "You overheard." 

"Yes, sir." 

Simon nodded, his eyes sliding away from Jim's face. He sighed deeply, and fingered the pen lying on his desk, then lay his arms across his desktop. "Jim. Just let this go. I don't want you to get drawn into this." 

"I work for you. I'm probably already in it. Just talk to me, Simon." 

Simon was uncharacteristically silent, and Jim didn't like it. He was tempted to plead or argue, but just stood watch at the door. Behind him, he heard Sandburg enter the bullpen, drop something at his desk, and come up next to him. 

"What's up, guys?" 

"Sandburg, I'm your supervisor, not a 'guy.' Can you remember that?" Simon's gruffness sounded authentic to Jim, but Blair didn't seem to be fooled. 

"Oh, man, what's wrong? Jim?" Jim kept his gaze steadily on his friend and captain, who once again looked away. "Jim?" 

"Simon's under investigation by IA." 

"Shit. What for?" 

"Jesus, you guys don't let up, do you." 

"Simon, I'm a detective, not a 'guy,'" Blair told him solemnly, and Simon tossed the pen at him. 

"Get your butts in here," he told them, "and shut the door, Sandburg." 

Once seated, Jim finally looked at Sandburg. His hair was curling almost chin length now, and he was wearing blue jeans with frayed knees, red Keds, a grey tee shirt, and a dark blue flannel overshirt. He was staring intently at Simon, eyes wide with concentration and concern. His very presence was a comfort, and Jim was able to lean back and pay close attention to Simon's tale. 

Simon sighed again and sat up straighter. "I've been accused of offering bribes." 

"That is such bullshit," Jim began, but Simon held his hands up and out in a wait-a-minute gesture. 

"Thank you, Jim, for your resounding faith in me. Yes, it is bullshit. It's an excuse." He paused. Jim said nothing, but glanced at Sandburg, almost open-mouthed in rapt attention. Jim saw Simon watching him watch Sandburg; Jim smiled, slightly, at Simon, who nodded. 

Before Simon could say his next words, Blair broke in. "Oh, god, it's about me, isn't it. How you could hire an admitted fraud to be a detective. You must've bribed somebody, or taken bribes from me, or from Jim, to do it." 

Jim was stunned, instantly angry, and a little frightened. Fear-based responses, he reminded himself, trying to breathe calmly, letting it go, but his flight-or-fight response had been triggered and only time would wash it from his blood chemistry. Simon simply watched them calmly. 

When Jim had settled himself back into the chair, determined to remain silent, Simon responded. "No, Sandburg. Sorry, but the world doesn't revolve around you and your alleged fraud. This is about a girl." 

Jim knew immediately what girl, and when. This was years ago, before his senses had kicked in and he'd met Sandburg. It really wasn't about him. Without conscious volition, he lifted his hand and placed it comfortingly on Sandburg's upper back, rubbing gently. "It's okay, Chief," he said softly, and Sandburg turned to smile at him gratefully. 

"I remember," he said to Simon. Her name was --" 

"Her name was Genevieve," Simon concluded, and Jim remembered everything. She was young, maybe seventeen, probably sixteen, and very pretty, skin the color of coffee the way Sandburg liked it, milky and sweet, with big doe eyes and lips like Julia Roberts'. She was that terrifying combination of girl and woman that most females miss, fortunately for most males: fragile as a flower stalk, tender as a first kiss, cunning as a cat. She'd been picked up for prostitution, found at the scene of a horrifying murder. Beautiful, childlike, sexually charged, she'd been brought in for questioning about the murder before being booked for prostitution. Her dress had been filmy, like dandelion fluff. Simon had stood near her, looking at her sadly, when the tiny strap over her right shoulder had lost its mooring and the bodice had fallen away revealing one perfect round breast tipped with a deep rose aureole and sharply-pointed nipple. The room's inhabitants had frozen for several seconds; Jim vividly remembered looking up from some phone call and seeing the breast pointing his way, calling him. His mouth had watered and he'd instantly gotten hard, achingly hard. Every man in the room had. Though Jim knew he loved Blair and desired him deeply, as he remembered that moment he felt his penis stir in his khaki trousers and he shifted on the seat. Simon simultaneously shifted. Both men dropped their eyes. 

Sandburg said, "What? What?" 

Jim cleared his throat. "What about Genevieve?" 

"They claim that I traded sexual favors for the early release of some wise guy." He looked at some notes on his desktop. "Tony Balducci." 

"All those years ago? Jesus, that must be five or six." 

"Five. And it's within the statute of limitations. She claims I coerced her into having sex. Several times. That I. Hurt her." The last words were choked out; Simon stared at his desktop. 

"Why? Why now?" Blair asked, and it was a good question, Jim thought. 

Simon shrugged. "She's reached majority. She's angry. She wants to right past wrongs." 

"No, I mean, _really_ why? Who'd you piss off?" 

Simon laughed shortly. "Hell, kid, who didn't I piss off? It's part of the job description." 

"Sandburg's right, sir. It's a set up. We need to figure out why." 

"I know it's a set up, Jim. I used to be a pretty good detective myself, back before I earned the privilege of being your supervisor." But Jim was undeterred by Simon's sarcasm and stared steadily at him. "I don't know who might want me out of the way right now," Simon finally said. 

"Unless it's one of the cases being worked on. If they get you out and assign someone else, even temporarily, they could redirect resources, focus attention elsewhere." 

Jim nodded. Sandburg was right. It could be a current case under investigation. "Where's Balducci these days?" 

"Dead," Simon finally said, looking levelly at Jim. "He was killed in the pen. Stabbed." He dropped his eyes. "And raped post-mortem." 

"Ewwwww, gross. Necrophilia," Jim heard Sandburg say, but he was already putting two and two together and coming up with fifteen. "In some cultures, having sexual relations with the deceased is thought to pass on their strength and authority. Like eating the brains of one's enemies, in cannibal societies. I think --" Jim placed a gentle hand over Sandburg's still moving mouth. Simon started to laugh, and shook his head. 

"Sandburg, you are a welcome addition to this division, but you talk too much." 

Blair looked at Jim from over the hand still covering his mouth, his eyes crinkling in amusement and affection. Jim, rather reluctantly, removed his hand and said, "Not now, kid. We got work to do." Blair silently nodded and stood up. 

"Let's get going." He crossed in front of Jim but stopped and turned toward Simon. "Don't worry, Captain," he said earnestly in his deep baritone. "Jim and I will figure it out." 

"I'm sure you will," Simon said, then gestured: Out. Jim rose as well, looking at his old friend. "I know you'll be careful, Jim." Jim nodded and followed his partner to their desks. Sandburg immediately logged onto a penal data base, muttering to himself in concentration. Jim perched on the edge of his desk, where he could see both Sandburg's face and the computer monitor. 

* * *

"Technically, I think he's nuts," the psychologist said. Jim couldn't remember his name; Ted, he thought, or was it Fred. Anyway, his diagnosis sounded right to Jim: nuts. 

"The pattern of violence is escalating, obviously. I've never heard of glass being used in such, um, _innovative_ ways, well, no, I take that back," and Jed or Ned stared off into space, clearly remembering some horrific glassy crime from his past, while Simon began tapping his pen irritably. 

"Does it matter why he's using glass?" Henri asked, sounding only slightly sarcastic. Simon shot him a look, and Jim felt Sandburg shift in the seat next to him. 

"I thought glass meant clarity," he suggested, drawing Ed's or Red's attention back to the meeting. 

"Yes, yes," he nodded, "of course, it must. He's looking for clarity, or perhaps he found his victims guilty of some lapse in clarity. Of obfuscation . . . " and he zoned out, or so it appeared to Jim, never having witnessed a zone from the outside. 

Sandburg sighed heavily, and said to Simon, "Look. H is right. It doesn't matter _why_ he's using glass. We know which factory makes the glass, and Jim and I are checking out all the stores that sell that type. All it takes is plain old police work now." 

Jim looked at his partner in surprise. Plain old police work? Who was this at his side? But Simon was agreeing. "Yeah. Get to it. I'm putting Henri and Rafe on it, too." They groaned. "Check in with Sandburg and Ellison. Get through all the stores that serve upscale homes and decorators. If it looks like a place you'd buy a window, skip it." He stood, startling the psychologist from his fugue. "Thank you, Doctor Heissmann," he said cordially. "You've been an enormous help. We'll start working on your suggestions immediately." 

The psychologist beamed at Simon and then the rest of the detectives as he stood and tugged at his suit coat. "Not at all, not at all. My pleasure." 

"Jesus, I need a candy bar," Henri muttered and headed toward the break room. Rafe grinned at Jim and said, "Give us a list; we'll start as soon as feeding time is over." 

Jim nodded, feeling better than he had for a while. They were on the right track. He knew it. And Sandburg knew it. 

Sandburg stood, too, and leaned over Jim's shoulder, his breath warm on Jim's ear. "I can't believe that guy. Was I like that when I first started?" 

Jim turned his head only slightly, tilting up so he could see Blair's eyes. "I'll let you sweat that one out, Chief," he replied, and felt a comforting pat on his back. 

* * *

Blair sat at his desk in the bullpen and stared at the chronology he'd drawn up. Jim was meeting with the DA this afternoon about the Briarson case, and most of the others of Major Crimes were out. It was still raining hard, for the second day; the streets were beginning to fill and power had begun to fail in the outlying regions. 

Blair was chilled, so he kicked on the space heater hidden beneath his desk, although everyone knew it was there. With relief he heard the little fan's whir and immediately felt his feet begin to warm. He cuddled back into the chair draped with Jim's coat, and sipped his coffee. 

His first case as the lead investigator was turning into what Jim called a doozy. Blair called it a pisser. Either way, he wanted to succeed, to put together the pieces he'd been given and see a whole emerge. Like putting together potsherds. It took patience and care and tenacity, but he could do it. He could do this. 

His eyes flickered over the list again: the dates and approximate times of the burglaries; location; missing items; means of entry; who had opportunity; who might have motive. All four burglaries had been in excellent neighborhoods, yet near downtown Cascade. All four had unusually valuable items taken but nothing else -- no stereo systems or cars gone. That's how it landed in Major Crimes. All were done in the morning of a weekday: one on a Monday, two on a Tuesday, and one on a Thursday. 

It seems to Blair that the thief would have to be masquerading as someone who had a reason to be in the neighborhood at that time of day. Working in someone's yard or on their pool. Or maybe a security person. He flipped through his notes of who had been seen those mornings, but it was a short list. Nobody seemed to be there, no one looked outside, no one went for a walk. He tapped his pen restlessly against the desk, and wished Jim were back, to bounce ideas off. 

He rested his chin in his hand and stared out at the rain. Had any of the burglaries occurred during rainy weather? He reshuffled his notes but found no mention, and so booted up his computer and logged into a local tv station's website, to check the weather for the crucial days. Then he started calling the neighbors again. 

When he looked up hours later, Simon was leaning against his door, watching him. Blair smiled, a bit uncertainly, wondering if Simon were going to make Jim the primary. Simon stood a few seconds longer and then waved him into this office. 

By the time Blair had wound through the desks, Simon had a mug of coffee ready for him, just the right color. He gestured for Blair to sit, and then spread his hands across the top of his desk. "Detective Sandburg," he began, and Blair's heart sank. "How's the investigation proceeding?" 

Blair resisted the impulse to babble or change the subject. He remembered from the academy the procedure for reporting cases, and began. 

* * *

When Jim returned from Beverly Sanchez's office late that dreary afternoon, he was more than ready to call it a day. He pictured picking up Sandburg and heading home to a hot shower and a cold beer. When he arrived back in Major Crimes and found no Sandburg, he was a little annoyed. 

Then he heard Blair's giggle -- it could be called nothing else -- from Simon's office. He wandered over, nodding to the others as they caught his eye, trying not to look concerned. Another giggle made him smile, and Rhonda smiled back at him with pleasure. 

When he stuck his head in, he found both Simon and Blair hunched over Simon's desk, staring down at some papers. "See," Blair was explaining, "It was never raining, no report of break-ins, nobody admits to having broken a window, yet the glass truck was there." 

"Glazier," Simon said, and they laughed again. Blair's laughter brings such pleasure to me, Jim admitted to himself. He watched his friends a minute more, then Simon caught a glimpse of him. 

"Jim," he said, smiling enormously, and that word brought Blair spinning around. The look of delighted welcome on his face made Jim take a step toward him, and he had to physically restrain himself from hugging Blair. 

"What?" he asked. 

Simon patted Blair's shoulder. "I'll let your partner fill you in. You two have work to do." Blair bundled up the papers on Simon's desk, and grabbed a Cascade phone book. 

"We do have work," he said on the way back to their desks. "We need to check out all the places that replace glass -- and Cascade has a lot of them." 

"We've already checked out who made the glass, Chief." 

"Yeah, I know, but I found a mailman who thought he saw one of those trucks that carry sheets of glass." 

"Glazier." 

"I know!" Blair rolled his eyes. "We gotta check out glaziers. Here --" he pushed the phone book toward Jim. "Let's get a list going." 

Jim nodded and sat down. When he was the primary, Blair had always followed his suggestions; now it was Jim's turn. 

* * *

"Look, Jim," Sandburg said softly, and pointed at a list of names on a computer printout. "Tansey shows up three times." 

Rafe and Henri had found the store where the glass had been sold. Very upscale, very expensive, in Cascade's expensive downtown. Three times, the same installer had been sent to one of the homes where a theft had occurred. In the last one, the woman had been murdered. 

"You think it's him?" 

Jim looked across his desk at Sandburg, who'd rolled his chair across the narrow space between his desk and Jim's. He was wearing his glasses, and looked like a professor, not a cop. Tamping down yet again his feelings of guilt and shame, Jim nodded. "I think we need to check him out. What've you got on him?" 

"I ran the usual. DMV, stuff like that. No tickets, no warrants, nothing outstanding. I called Sadie in Records, and --" 

"No, no, don't tell me how you got the information. Just tell me what you know." 

Looking over the top of his glasses, Sandburg studied Jim for a moment, then continued. "Big problem with back taxes. Apparently he'd made a lot of money in computers, start-up ventures that made zillions as IPOs and then busted. Now he doesn't have anything except debts. And the venture capitalists who'd backed him have moved on to other start-ups. Pretty typical, from what I understand." 

"So he's angry at rich folks." 

"Yeah, basically. I mean, that's just a guess; all I know is that he owes a lotta money to a lotta people, including the IRS. He's trying to chapter-thirteen himself out, but that's not as easy as it used to be." 

Jim stared at his partner, then beyond him. Good work, he thought, but said nothing. Finally, he stood up. "Let's go sniff around a little bit, see what else we can find." 

* * *

Sitting in the dark in Jim's pickup, watching the paint curl on the Tansey home while they waited for nothing to happen, Blair found the courage to ask Jim a question he'd never successfully answered himself. "What does it mean to you, to have a Guide? That I'm your Guide?" 

Jim never took his eyes off the house from his position behind the wheel. Relaxed yet attentive, he rolled his head back and slightly shifted in the seat, then glanced at Blair. 

"Why?" 

Blair laughed. "No, no. It took a lot of courage to ask that question. No divagations, please." 

Jim grinned at that, but the expression quickly left his face. "It means a lot. A lot of things, and a lot to me." He paused, and then added quickly, "I try not to think about it." 

"Why? Is it because I'm not Incacha?" 

"No! Jesus, Blair." 

"Hmm, 'Blair.'" 

"What does _that_ mean." 

"You have a lot of names for me, Jim. When we're at work or you're angry with me, you call me Sandburg. When you're joking around or relaxed, you call me Chief. But you don't often call me Blair. Who's your Guide, Jim? Sandburg, Chief, or Blair?" 

Jim snorted. "This is jesuitical sophistry." 

"Whoa! Multisyllabic put-downs! In what way is my question jesuitical sophistry?" 

"In that all three names are you; you're you; and you're my Guide. There's no difference." 

"But there is. I can hear it. I know that if you were to say my name right now, you'd say 'Sandburg.' But just a minute ago, you called me 'Blair.' There are reasons for your choice, even if you're not aware of them." 

"Of course I'm aware of them." Jim sounded a little angry now, but Blair was too curious to stop. 

"Then explain. Who's your Guide, and how do you feel about it?" 

Jim sighed deeply, and ran his hand over his hair. Blair kept the house they were staking out in his peripheral vision, but watched Jim's profile, barely visible in the pale light from a solitary, distant streetlamp. Jim turned to look at him, and he caught a gleam of something in Jim's eyes, something that flashed at him, but then Jim turned back to the Tansey home. 

When Jim spoke again, his voice was soft and hesitant, and Blair listened as closely as a Sentinel, as closely an anthropologist, trying to understand not simply the words but also the feelings and thoughts behind them. "You're my Guide, Blair. Just you. I trust you: as my partner, my backup, my friend, and my Guide. I trust you with my life, my truck, and my sanity. And mostly that's okay, it's good, and I can go for weeks not thinking about it, but sometimes I realize how much I, how." He stopped, and very slightly shook his head. "How much I need you." 

They sat for long minutes, neither speaking, then Jim reached out and took Blair's hand. "Don't take this the wrong way," he said gently, still staring at the house. "But sometimes I hate it. I hate having to depend on you. I've always been independent, in control; I was taught that it was weak and stupid to rely on others. Those days I want to run away. 

"But on my good days, Blair, I know I'd be running from me, not you. I know that it isn't you I'm mad at; it's me for needing you as much as I do. I hate that." 

Blair squeezed Jim's hand, and cleared his throat. "Actually, I understand. Man, just think how Naomi raised me. 'Detach with love, Blair; just let it go.' But I can't let you go." My Sentinel. Blessed Protector. Partner. 

Jim put his other hand around Blair's and held it for a few heartbeats more, then let it go and reached for the thermos behind him. "Need a refill, buddy?" 

Blair laughed. "Kiddo, Junior, Darwin, Einstein, and now Buddy. Once of us suffers from multiple personality disorder." Jim shook his head as he filled his cup, set it carefully on the dashboard, and then tilted the thermos over Blair's mug. 

"Jesus, I wish this was over. I can't think of anything more boring. Can't even listen to the radio for fear I'll miss something." 

Blair knew that was all he'd get out of Jim that night. 

* * *

The next morning, peering under his futon bed, hunting for dirty socks, Blair thought about the accusations of corruption facing Simon. He was so angered by them on behalf of his friend, a friend who'd stood by him through remarkable situations. He remembered lying to Simon, all those years ago, when they first met. Since then, he and Simon had forged a kind of friendship, one that first grew out of their concern for Jim, and then for Simon's son. Now Simon was Blair's boss, and he didn't want to see anything bad happen to him. 

No socks under the bed. He started working the periphery of his room. There had to be socks in here. He couldn't really afford to buy new ones right now, not till the end of the month. He could borrow Jim's, or borrow some money from Jim and buy his own, but he'd rather just find his socks and wash them. It seemed important. 

He looked behind the bookcase, trying not to see his old anthro texts leaning heavily against each other. He'd become skilled at this seeing-not seeing phenomenon; maybe he couldn't see his socks for the same reason. That made him laugh lightly as he bumped his head against a shelf. Maybe the room was draped in socks, but he wasn't letting himself see them. 

During the bad days, the post-dissertation and ante-academy days, he'd been without funds for a while. Naomi had helped as much as she could, but Jim had simply been there, anticipating his needs. Always food in the fridge, Blair's hard-to-find brand of toothpaste in the bathroom; even his cell phone and car insurance had magically been paid. Blair had tried several times to thank Jim, but he'd waved it off. 

Blair knew Jim was profoundly ashamed that he'd permitted Blair to discard his reputation and academic life for him. He knew that Jim would never fully recover from the experience of owing so much to another. Yet Blair also felt utterly in Jim's debt, and that he, too, could never repay that debt. He paused in the corner behind one of the french doors, resting his head against the wall. 

Their relationship was so complex. Too complex, maybe. Blair wasn't really accustomed to complex relationships with anyone; he'd always made a point of _not_ permitting complexity in his relationships. He believed in detaching with love, in letting go and walking away and never looking back. But now. Jim seemed to believe that he and Blair were connected somehow. Naomi would love that; a cosmic connection. 

But Blair was hesitant to accept such an explanation. It implied a lack of free will. How could he suffer existential angst if he weren't free to choose his hell? Oh, man, he thought, pushing away from the wall and surveying the room again. Too much Nietzsche, too much Kierkegaard, too much Sartre. 

But not enough socks. 

Okay, time to bite the bullet. Steal a few pairs of Jim's while he's taking a shower. Blair will do laundry this weekend, but today he has to get to work. 

* * *

Goddammit. Sandburg had been borrowing his socks again, and he was reduced to choosing between a pair of holey white cotton or flimsy dark nylon. He'd buy the kid a baker's dozen before coming home tonight, stick them in his dresser. Jim smiled at the image of Sandburg finding the sock surprise. He thought briefly about bellowing his displeasure to the occupant of the room beneath him, but decided he didn't want to spoil the surprise. 

Choosing the holey white pair, he sat on the bed to pull them on, his mind running from his annoyance at the missing socks to Sandburg's reluctance to admit there was some kind of connection between the two men. He'd sneak socks out of Jim's dresser, but couldn't acknowledge their relationship. 

Well, god knows neither of them was very good at relationships. Maybe Sandburg was right, and this was just wishful thinking on Jim's part. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to touch and be touched by Blair. Maybe it was a form of abuse or harassment, to engage in what he'd named their ritual, to hug Blair and absorb his essence. 

Okay. He'd buy the socks and, when Sandburg mentioned them, scold him for not asking first. And he'd back off on the ritual. It wasn't fair, to force it on his partner. Not after he'd been through so much, and all for Jim's sake. 

* * *

The IA guy was back. Jim sat at his desk and blatantly eavesdropped, Sandburg next to him. Most of Major Crimes were in today, and although only Jim could hear with any accuracy what was happening in Simon's office, all the detectives, secretaries, and clerks had fallen quiet upon the appearance of the now-hated investigator. 

Jim had always found comfort in consistency. As a child, he'd craved certainty. No doubt the early loss of his mother was in large part responsible, as were his senses and, later, the need to hide them. So he found comfort in knowing that Simon was by nature a loud man, articulate, loquacious, and accustomed to having his way. When he said jump, people didn't bother to ask how high, they just hit the ceiling. Simon liked that, and so did he. 

Jim could see that Simon didn't like remaining quiet, passive, and that he didn't like being observed. The IA guy was a primo jerk; they always recruited the jerks. He was yammering away a mile a minute, in a New York accent, for Chrissakes, who the fuck hired _him_ , while Simon sat quiet, passive. 

Jim didn't like seeing Simon like this, didn't like seeing his captain diminished in this way. He shouldn't be treated like this, and certainly not in front of his own men. 

He glanced at Sandburg standing at his shoulder. Quiet, too, also unlike him. Simon was loud; Sandburg was persistent. They'd made a good team, good friends to Jim, who wasn't easy to be a friend to. He didn't like seeing Sandburg this quiet, either. His narrowed eyes were focused on the IA jerk, following him as he paced through Simon's office. 

* * *

"Mr. Sandburg," the academy instructor said, "I understand that you have at times been called on as an expert witness for the Cascade PD." 

"Yes, sir," Blair answered cautiously from his seat in the first row. Still a brown-noser, he always thought as he automatically headed for those seats. Gotta let the teacher see who you are, see that you're interested. School was school; the university or the academy, it didn't matter. 

"Perhaps as I describe, during the next few days, the court structure, trial procedures, and rules of evidence, you would be kind enough to contribute any examples you deem pertinent." The guy had to be a lawyer; had Blair testified in one of his trials maybe? 

"Yes, sir," he said quietly, fighting the desire to slump. "If I have any useful contributions." What was this, a more sophisticated version of Schlereth's teasing? Surely the guy couldn't be serious. What was his name again? Lalonde. He'd have to ask Jim if he knew him. 

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, but Blair flew out of the classroom as soon as he could, praying Lalonde wouldn't call him back or bring any more attention to him. Jesus. And then this afternoon was firearms training, something he still found distressing enough that he knew not to eat a big lunch just prior to it. 

In a stall in the men's room, jeans around his ankles, he poked through his backpack until he found his dayplanner. Less than two weeks of the program gone; he still had ten weeks to go. Over two months. God. Impulsively, he pulled a red marker out and began crossing off the dates of the program already passed. Another little ritual to help keep him grounded. 

As he was crossing off today's date, several people entered the restroom. He recognized Schlereth's voice, and Alpert's. Maybe a third voice was familiar. He resolved to stay in the stall until they left. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, and rummaged through his pack again, until he found a granola bar. He needed to keep his blood sugar level up, even if he couldn't face anything more substantial. 

Biting the foil wrapper to rip it open, he heard Schlereth say, "What the fuck did Lalonde mean about Sandburg? He's no expert; he admitted on tv he's a fraud." 

"That was before," the third voice said. "Bet he'll never testify again. I mean, who'd believe him?" 

The unkind laughter didn't hurt Blair as much as the realization that his press conference would indeed be thrown up in his face any time he ever again had to make another statement in court. Any good lawyer would be a fool not to use it to cast reasonable doubt into the jury's minds. You admitted to lying before, Mr. Sandburg; how do we know you're not lying now? 

Because I never lied about Jim's abilities, Blair answered himself, but of course, he could never say that. Another burden. He twisted the foil back around the granola bar and tucked it back into his backpack, along with the dayplanner. Schlereth and his friends had left; Blair was free to jerk up his jeans and escape his little prison. 

Might as well go straight to the firing range, get started. 

* * *

Blair knew he wasn't going to make it. Moving slowly, carefully, he slid his backpack onto his shoulder and started toward the car. The others rushed passed him, talking or joking or just heading out; mostly they ignored him, even Schlereth. The firearms instructors were nice enough, a little patronizing at time to someone so ignorant of guns, but they had a lot of patience. As a teacher himself, he knew how valuable that was; some students just took longer to pick certain concepts up. He'd seen that teaching Anthro 101; consanguinity had always fascinated him, probably because he was so without family, but each semester he'd have one or two students who took six weeks to get what the others got in one lecture. 

That's what his instructors thought, he knew, and that's what Jim thought. He was just a little slow about this gun-thing. Not a big deal. Practice makes perfect. 

Now he was alone; he could see the parking lot and the few stragglers leaning against their cars, planning to meet for a beer, to study, to fuck. He glanced behind him; the range was empty. He veered off the dirt path, moving a little more quickly now, and squatted behind the shrubs lining the parking lot. They were thick with dust and old leaves; he couldn't see through them. He carefully set his pack down, and pulled out the bottle of water, but it was too late. He belched, and felt the jerk in his stomach that meant whatever was in there was coming out. Another jerk, and he gagged. He leaned forward onto his knees and one hand, and then vomited. Not much; he hadn't eaten since breakfast, his algae shake and a bagel. Now his body was in that appalling rhythm, though, and regardless of the vacancy of his stomach, it kept trying to empty itself. 

Hot and cold, sweating, tears running down his face, he took a deep breath and tried to calm his stomach. He had to keep spitting, and his stomach kept making tiny jerks, but he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, slowly, repeating his mantra. Finally, he rinsed his mouth with the water, then poured some on his face and wiped it off with the back of his hand. 

He sat down next to his pack, away from the stinking mess he'd made, and pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed Jim. It was with immense relief that he immediately heard Jim's clipped, "Ellison." 

"Hey, man, are you busy?" He'd meant it to sound light-hearted, but his voice was raspy from the abuse his vocal cords had just suffered. 

"Blair? Where are you?" 

"Firing range. Can you pick me up? I don't think I can drive right now, and I'd like to go home." Better; a little louder, a little more jovial. Maybe Jim would assume he'd had one too many beers with his good buddies while shooting the empties. 

"Right there. Don't move." Hah. As if. 

So Jim found him right there, sitting next to his pack, head in hands, water bottle empty beside him, not more than twenty minutes later. "Hey, Mister Policeman, you musta broke the speed limit." 

"Blair." Jim knelt down next to him, even though his nose must have been offended, and pulled him into a hug. Blair let him; he fell into the embrace and to his shame felt tears of self-pity rise into his eyes. "What happened? Who did this?" 

Blair had to laugh. "Nothing happened. No one did anything, man. Just me." Jim had him by his upper arms and was staring into his sweaty, tear-stained face, seeing god knew what with his vision, and then he slung Blair's backpack over his left shoulder and gently, slowly helped Blair up and toward the pickup. 

Arm tight around Blair's back, he almost lifted him into the passenger's seat, then set the backpack at his feet and slammed the door shut. Only when he was in the pickup himself did he speak to Blair again. "Chief. I find you crouched over a puddle of your own vomit and you tell me nothing happened? How stupid do you think I am, anyway?" 

Blair blushed, shut his eyes, and leaned his head against the door window. "Jesus, James. It was just a hard day," he sighed. "It's just hard, sometimes." 

Jim didn't say anything, and after a moment, started the truck and the drive home. Blair knew he wouldn't let this go, though, and started building his defenses, trying out different reasons for his behavior. On the street below the loft, Jim took up the pack again, and helped Blair out of the truck, and he let him, although he was feeling stronger now. 

In the apartment, Jim dumped the pack in Blair's bedroom, but steered Blair to the bathroom, turned down the toilet lid, sat him on it, and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Hey, man," Blair tried to laugh, pulling away ineffectually, "What are you doing?" 

"I'm going to scrub it off you," Jim said fiercely, and Blair stared up at him. Jim's face was set, his eyes narrowed; he looked furious. 

"Are you angry at me?" Blair finally asked, which interrupted Jim's hands on his shirt for a second. Then he pulled the shirt from him and started tugging at his tee shirt. When it was off, Jim knelt before him and untied his shoes. 

Leaving his hands on Blair's stockinged feet, he looked up into Blair's face. Now his eyes were wide and he looked miserable. "No, I'm not mad at you, Chief. I'm mad, I don't even know what I'm mad at, which is lucky because I'd probably shoot it, but I know it's not you." He smiled crookedly, then pulled off Blair's socks. "But I'm gonna scrub everything off you. The academy. The assholes who fuck with you. The gun oil." 

He gently pulled Blair to his feet and began opening his pants. Blair felt as though he'd come to some crossroads, but he didn't know where any of the paths would take him. After a moment, he acquiesced to Jim's ministrations and wiggled out of the jeans, hesitated, and then pulled off his briefs and climbed into the tub. Jim started the water running, testing it carefully with his hand, then set the plug and poured in some of the lemon verbena body wash Blair liked. Its comforting scent imbued the small bathroom and filled the tub with bubbles. 

Feeling slightly crazed, Blair lowered himself into the warm water and watched as Jim rolled up his sleeves and picked up the nylon scrubby he used and poured more body wash on it, working up a thick lather. Blair leaned forward, and Jim cupped his hand and poured the warm silken water down his back, again and again and again. It was incredibly soothing. Then he started scrubbing Blair's back in gentle but thorough circles, around his neck, over his shoulders, down his arms, rinsing and scrubbing. 

When he leaned back against the tub and Jim started on his chest, Blair opened his eyes and watched him. It was an intensely sensual moment, but an ambivalent one. He loved his partner, he knew that and had accepted it long ago. He knew he was smaller and lighter-weight, and that Jim, by virtue of his size and training, could physically force him to move or hold still, whatever he wished. But Jim had never used that force against him; on the contrary, even when Jim was angry, even the few times Jim had pushed him around, Blair could tell he had restrained himself, held back. He knew he could stop this, with just a word or even a gesture. But Jim seemed to need this, this act of absolution. 

Finally, he said, "Why?" 

Jim never stopped stroking the scrubby, working steadily down. "I smelled the gun oil on you. I hate that smell; it reminds me of my own life. I don't want that on you." 

Blair took Jim's hands and, as he knew would happen, Jim stopped, then looked at him. "I don't hate that. I want to be part of your life." 

Jim closed his eyes, and said, "Just for tonight, Blair. Just for tonight." Blair released Jim's hands, and Jim touched his body again, with reverence, with love. Blair sank a little deeper into the steaming water and watched his roommate bathe him. 

* * *

Jim's senses were stretched as far as he could without risking zoning. He smelt Blair first, long before he could see him, and knew he'd been sick. His heart was beating calmly, though, so it had to have been earlier, before he'd called. 

Blair was sitting behind the thick bushes rimming the parking lot, where no one could have seen him unless they'd been looking. Jim was profoundly moved at his cheerful greeting in his voice hoarse from puking. Jim felt -- twisted with emotions. He was angry at whoever or whatever had done this to Blair, whether it was a bad burrito for lunch or a fight with another student. He was frightened for Blair's well-being, both physical and emotional. He was disturbed at the intensity of his own emotions at finding Blair in this state. 

He worked to dial down his sense of smell as he embraced Blair. The sour odor of his vomit and bile and the bite of gun oil all masked the scent of Blair he'd come to rely on over the years. His impulse was to sling Blair into a fireman's carry and get him out of there, but that would not only embarrass Blair and hurt his abused stomach, it would violate Jim's own house rules for treating Blair. So he carefully helped him up and got him home. 

Once in the loft, Jim felt compelled. If he'd been in one of his visions, he wouldn't have been surprised. He felt pulled to perform some cleansing ritual that would divorce himself and Blair from the outside world that had so damaged him. And so he found himself in the position of washing the most intimate parts of his friend's body. Since Blair was right here, literally under his hands, he let his senses go, dared zoning on the feel of his skin, the smooth and the hairy parts, the very follicles in the epidermis. On the scents he was stripping from Blair and on the ones he was replacing them with: the natural oil in Blair's hair, curling even more wildly in the humidity; his sweat, different under his arms than on his feet; the lemon verbena filling the air with its calm. He listened carefully to Blair's heart, a little fast now, probably from the novelty of being touched like this by Jim; to his blood moving through his arteries and capillaries and back through the veins; to his lungs, pushing the air in and out, a relaxed sighing sound that soothed Jim more than any relaxation tape. 

And finally, Jim permitted himself the indulgence of sight, and _looked_ at Blair under his hands. If he were going to zone, this would do it, seeing his partner relaxed, finally, lying back limply, permitting Jim to hold him, stroke him, be with him. Jim studied his friend as carefully as if he'd never seen him before or would again: the heavy beard, ready for another shave since this morning; the short, crisp hair curling around his ears; the muscles of his shoulders and chest, larger, now, since he'd moved in with Jim and started working out with him; the dense mat of hair on his chest, almost hiding his flat nipples. Jim looked under the water, too; although the creamy bubbles hid much, he could see Blair's penis moving slightly with the motion of his relaxed body as Jim moved it to scrub. Jim sighed heavily, and felt himself relax, too. 

Gently, Jim pulled one of Blair's feet up and began soaping it. He saw Blair open his eyes and smile slightly, then jump. "Ticklish?" he asked, and fluttered his fingers against Blair's arch. Blair laughed and tried to pull away, but Jim held on. "Don't worry, no more," and he kept his promise. This wasn't the time. This was a purification ritual, he had no doubt; he'd heard enough about them from Blair over the years. He must have absorbed enough anthropology by now to give a few lectures of his own. 

When Jim carefully replaced Blair's other foot into the cooling bathwater, he looked at Blair again, who was watching him, a residual smile on his face. "What's next?" 

Blair laughed. "You're asking me?" 

"Yeah, Einstein, I'm asking you. I figured out this was a purification ceremony, so what's the next step?" 

Blair stopped laughing, and started thinking, Jim could see. "Jesus, you're right." He sat up in the water suddenly, splashing Jim a bit. "What happened? What made you do this? It was more than the gun oil, wasn't it." 

Jim pulled the plug and started the water running again; Blair needed to wash his hair and Jim felt, well, _clean_ enough to let him do it himself. "Yeah." Standing, he jerked the shower curtain closed and said, "I'm gonna fix some soup. Think you can eat any?" 

"Yeah." 

So Jim left him to his own ablutions, now; whatever strange compulsion it had been had left him. When Blair emerged, wearing Jim's robe that he left in the bathroom and toweling his hair dry, the soup was ready to be spooned out. Blair sat at the dining table, and Jim put a bowl in front of him, next to a spoon and a hot sourdough roll. Then he stood behind his friend and began towel-drying his hair vigorously, enjoying the feel of a relaxed Blair. 

"Okay, okay," Blair finally said, and Jim hung the towel up in the bathroom, then got himself a bowl of soup as well, and sat across from Blair who was, he was gratified to see, eating happily. "That was great, Jim," he said, mouth full, waving the roll around, "and you know I needed it, but what the hell was it?" 

"I told you," Jim said calmly. "Purification ceremony." 

"But why?" 

Jim looked at him through the fragrant steam of his soup. Blair blushed, and said, "Oh. Yeah." They both began eating again, and Blair had seconds. When the dishes were done, Blair asked, "Are we gonna talk about this?" 

Jim thoughtfully dried his hands on the dishtowel, and then looped it through the refrigerator door. "Should we?" 

Blair rolled his eyes. "You said you were compelled to, to clean me." 

"I said I wanted that smell off you." 

Blair blushed, but persisted, no surprise. "Why?" 

"You'd been sick . . ." 

"You specifically said the gun oil. Why?" 

Jim pulled out two beers, twisted off their caps, and handed one to Blair before drinking about half of his in one long swallow. After a moment, he said, "It was a little like a vision. I kept expecting to see that panther. Or the wolf." Blair raised his eyebrows and sipped his beer. "I don't know what to say, Blair. You were sick and hurting. I needed to help. You smelled a little like, like me, in the bad days. I don't know what to say," he repeated, and walked to the couch where he stood wondering what to do next. 

Blair followed him and gently pushed him around to the front of the couch and then down into it, seating himself on the coffee table in front of him. "Hey, house rules," Jim objected mildly, but Blair just waved the comment aside with his beer bottle. 

"You felt compelled," he repeated, and Jim rolled his eyes, mumbling, "Jesus," under his breath. "You said you felt compelled." 

"Shit, Darwin, what do you want me to say? I'm sorry, all right? I took liberties with you. I, I touched you," and Jim blushed furiously, "and if you're angry, you have a right. I'm sorry," he said again, more softly, this time looking at Blair. 

"I'm not mad, Jim," Blair said calmly. "Naomi taught me how to say no a long time ago. Quite frankly," and now Blair blushed, something Jim enjoyed watching, and Blair's eyes slid away, "I liked it. I think I needed it, too, as much as you." More firmly now, looking into Jim's eyes. "But I need to know why." 

Jim didn't answer for a long time. He took another sip of his beer and stared past Blair, out the balcony windows. It was just now getting dark, the sky a pale robin's egg blue, a few curls of cloud catching the last of the sun and glowing a saturated yellow. He took a deep breath, and then another, and thought about what he was going to say to Blair. These would be hard words for Jim, words he had wrestled with for months now. 

"Do you remember," oh god, how could he phrase this? "After the fountain," he mumbled, hunching over in his misery, "in the hospital, you said. You said," but Blair took pity on him. 

"I told you that we needed to discuss the mystical side of the Sentinel-Guide relationship." 

"Yeah. That." He finished the beer and set it down on a magazine, still not able to look at Blair. "I've thought about that for months. I'm the one having visions, I'm the one who sees things, I'm the one who went after you," he choked a bit, and Blair put a comforting hand on Jim's. "I have to acknowledge these things," he murmured, staring out at the clouds as they darkened to a rich orange. He took a deep breath and sat up straighter, finally looking into Blair's curious eyes. 

"Yeah, I was compelled, and I think you were compelled, too, Blair. I think we are, somehow -- linked. Maybe genetically. Maybe, maybe destined to be together. Jesus," he finished, shaking his head. "I hate this shit, Blair, I hate it, but I've followed orders all my life. As a child, as a soldier, as a cop. It's what I do. I know what it feels like. And buddy, I'm just followin' orders here." 

To his surprise, Blair was silent. Jim studied his face, the heavy-lidded eyes moving rapidly as he processed Jim's suggestion. At last, he shook his head. "No. No, I can't believe that, Jim. We're free to make whatever decisions we want. There are no orders, here, no genetic destiny. You're suggesting a telos, an inevitable end that we're working towards. I can't accept that." 

"Why not?" 

Blair looked at him in surprise. "Why not? I think that'd be obvious. We're free, free to make any decision we wish." 

"No, you know that isn't true. First of all, there're only a small number of decisions we _can_ make. We can't decide to ignore gravity or live without oxygen. But even within the realm of the possible, we're severely limited. You can't suddenly decide to be somebody else." Jim shook his head. " _I_ can't suddenly decide to be somebody else. I can't be somebody who can live without you." 

Jesus, phrased that way it sounded sappy, Jim thought, as he watched the concern rise in Sandburg's face and his head begin to shake no, no. "You -- I." He stood up suddenly and walked to the balcony doors, staring out across the city. "Jim, man, what are you saying?" 

When Jim didn't answer, Blair turned back. Jim could feel Blair's concern wash over him as he sat hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He sniffed loudly, and rubbed his face. "Nothing, Sandburg. Forget it. I was tired and stressed." He stood. "I'm going to bed." 

"No, no, Jim, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push you." Blair blocked him, as he so often had before. "I don't, I'm sorry I do that to you. I do respect your opinion, your ideas. Don't let me being a jerk stop you, okay?" 

Jim smiled down at Blair's worried face, then bit his lip and turned aside. Blair stepped in his path again. "Just wait," he said, twisting to set his beer down and then was back. "Okay. Like before," he said, and raised his arms around Jim's chest, pulling them together. 

Jim never thought about denying this, denying them. He put his arms around Sandburg and hugged him, breathing in with relief the clean scent of his friend, all the filth of the day washed out the sewers of Cascade, where it belonged. He let his senses go again, this time hearing and touch as well as smell, and soaked in the presence of his friend. Jim's robe hung on his smaller frame; its fragrance added a consoling note to the blend of sensations he reveled in. He didn't know how long they stood there, slightly swaying, until he heard Sandburg's gentle baritone inviting him back, come back to me, Jim, I'm right here, right here, and finally Jim took a sudden breath as if emerging from the depths, and opened his eyes. "Hey," Sandburg smiled at him, hands on his shoulders, their bodies still pressed together. 

"Hey," Jim said softly, his voice rumbly with relaxation. "Another ritual, Blair," he added, and Sandburg nodded. 

"I know. But not now, Jim, let's not discuss it now. You go to bed." 

"What are you going to do? You're the one who had the hard day." 

"Yeah, but I need to write some of this stuff down. That'll help me sleep, to know it's on my computer." Jim knew this was true; he'd seen it often enough during Sandburg's days at Rainier. He patted his friend's shoulder, then rubbed it firmly, enjoying the sensation of the worn cotton over the bulk of his muscle, and then released him. 

"Good night, Chief." 

"Night, Jim." 

* * *

"Okay," Jim said, patting Blair on the back comfortingly. "Most cops never shoot anyone. Many never draw their guns. You don't want to, there's too much paperwork if you do. But if you ever have to, you want to know what to do." 

Blair nodded, holding the gun in his sweating hands. He wanted to do well, impress Jim. He listened carefully, eyes wide. 

"When you pull your gun, it'll be for one of two reasons. In self-defense or to defend someone else, when it's clear a life is in immediate danger. The courts say a criminal's life is worth less than a non-criminal's. Those situations are pretty clear. 

"But you can also choose to pull if a felon is fleeing. This is an old law, goes back to British common law, but it's become less clear over the years. Now you have to balance your decision: is the crime dangerous enough to society that deadly force should be used to stop the flight? That's a judgment call a lotta times, so you want to think about it in advance. 

"And that's the key: thinking about this stuff in advance. Making a plan. You make a plan now, and revise it if the situation ever arises. You saw in your textbook that fewer uses of deadly force occur when the officers plan their approach." 

Blair nodded again, feeling a little more relaxed. "I can make a plan now," he said. "You can help me; you've got lots of experience." 

Jim patted him again. "That's right, buddy, and that's why we're here. We're gonna talk about different situations, make a plan, and then decide what to do. This is called a practical pistol course, and eventually we'll run the stress course. But right now, you're just gonna talk to me." 

After a deep breath, Blair said, "Thanks, man. Thanks for taking your Saturday to do this with me. After last week, I. It's one thing to read it, you know?" 

"Yeah. I know. I, uh, you should know I used to pull my gun too quickly. I got sent to some, uh, sessions with a shrink and had to take a class. It helped, Blair." Jim swallowed, not really looking at Blair, who'd never taken his eyes off him. 

Jim turned Blair's body so he faced the bull's eyes set down the alley. "Okay. That guy just ripped an old lady's bag off her, pushed her into the street, and ran away. What're you gonna do?" 

"That's easy, man. Help the old lady. First rule: secure the scene and locate assistance for any injured." 

"Good. She's okay, just upset, and wants her purse back. It's got her social security check in it. Now what." 

"Call it in and run like hell in the direction the suspect took off." Jim continued to talk him through the sequence of events, bringing him closer to the moment he'd have to decide to pull or not. To make a seizure, as the courts called it. Blair kept his eyes on the target, holding his gun pointing up, trying not to feel too much like Mel Gibson. 

"Okay, here it is. He doesn't seem to have a gun. The purse is in the trash. He's climbed a fence and is getting away. What're you going to do?" 

"Let him go. I've got the purse, the old lady's okay; it isn't worth anyone's life, not even his, to use deadly force." 

Jim clapped him hard on the shoulder. "You got it. And that's it, Blair. Almost every situation will be like that." 

"But you've shot at lots of people. I've been with you, Jim. Don't patronize me." 

Jim stared at him, and sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, we're in major crimes, not on a beat. Let's try this again. 

"Remember when that meth lab blew up your old apartment? I chased after some guys and I pulled. Why?" 

Blair stared at him, trying to remember. He'd waited with Larry outside the burning building, trying to rescue his stuff. He hadn't known Jim well then, and hadn't considered trailing after him that night. "They'd caused significant damage to property. They almost killed us. They probably had killed people with the drugs they were making. Their flight had to be stopped badly enough that deadly force was appropriate." 

"Judgment call. Some people would disagree, but yeah, that's what I thought. And don't forget, Chief, I was high on adrenaline, I was worried about you, and I was pissed about your stuff. You're not supposed to factor that into the decision, but you can't not do it. You can't magically make the adrenaline disappear from your bloodstream, but you can't let it control you, either. Like that stalker who got pissed at me 'cause I cut him off. I let my anger control me; you saw that. I was wrong. 

"Okay," he said after a silent pause, "I wanna see you shoot. Right now, just straight practice shots. You know what to do." 

Blair turned again to face the paper bull's eyes hanging before him, straightened his arms, and aimed. This much he knew he could do; it was almost a pleasure to experience the power of the ingenious weapon in his hands. It was the other stuff, the stuff to come, that still had him worried. 

But this. He could make Jim proud of him with this. He fired, and smiled very slightly. 

* * *

"I don't get that glass, man," Blair said to Jim as they leaned against the hood of the Ford waiting for the forensics team to finish. "It didn't come from the house, so somebody brought it. But why the hell bring what's gotta be twenty-pounds of crushed glass?" 

Jim nudged him, and straightened, pointing with his chin at a heavy man striding toward them from his Cadillac. Blair stood straighter, too, and took a step toward him. "Mr. Carroll?" he asked as the man reached them. 

"Yeah. Who the fuck are you?" 

"Mr. Carroll, I'm Detective Sandburg, and this is my partner, Detective Ellison. Thank you for arriving so quickly. We need to ask you a few questions." 

"Later, kid. I gotta see what happened." 

"No, no sir," Blair said, stepping agilely in front of Carroll, blocking his path to the door. "We need to let forensics finish. When they're through, Detective Ellison and I will walk you through the house." Carroll glared at Blair for a moment; they were about the same height, but Carroll was double his weight. Finally, he nodded, and backed away, crossing his arms over his belly, resting them on his expensive suit. 

"What," he said, not a question. Blair thought about facing his thesis committee when he earned his master's degree; one of the members had been a bit hostile, like this guy, but he'd won him over. 

"Do you own this home, Mr. Carroll?" 

"Yeah. I'm gonna sell it, though. Too big for me. My wife left," he added, almost embarrassed. "Got herself a handsome young boyfriend." 

"I'm sorry, sir. What time did you leave this morning?" 

"Same as always, a little after six. I'm regular as clockwork, ask my neighbors." He said this proudly; Blair wondered briefly if he was referring to his bowel movements but dismissed the thought before it made him smile. 

"And everything was in place then." 

"Yeah, of course. Why, what's wrong with it now? Shit. Some kid break in and trash it?" 

"Why do you ask that?" 

"I dunno, Jesus, you saw the house, not me. What's wrong with it?" 

"We'll need you to tell us when you get in. Now, your housekeeper arrives at what time?" 

"Eight, well, she's supposed to, but who the hell knows. She's got a key. She called me around nine thirty, said the house'd been broken into. Maybe she arrived then. Hey, you're gonna check her out, right?" 

"Yes, sir. Where do you work?" 

Jim tuned out the rest of the interview; Blair was doing fine. Better than fine. No one watching would realize this was his first time doing this by himself. Always before he'd stood two steps behind and just to Jim's left. Where's the kid? people at the station would ask him; where's your shadow? Now they were equals. 

He watched Blair closely, watched Blair's eyes as he studied Carroll's responses; listened to Blair's heart rate: calm and unexcited as he took down the trivia of this man's self-centered life; smelled Blair's unscented deodorant and shaving cream, as if anything were ever really unscented, that he wore in deference to Jim's heightened senses. Without a conscious decision, Jim took a step forward and rested his hand on Blair's shoulder, enjoying the feeling of the soft cotton under his hand, and the warm strength beneath it. Blair looked up at him expectantly; Jim squeezed his shoulder. "Forensics are through, Chief. Let's take Mr. Carroll in." 

Inside, Jim was again uncomfortably reminded of the home of his childhood. House, he corrected himself; it was never a home. Large rooms, well-lit by big windows and beautiful fixtures, everything spotless. It looked like the cover of a home decor magazine. They paced through the rooms slowly, Carroll studying them: the pictures on the walls, the objets d'art on the shelves. Jim studied Carroll as he passed through each room. Calm, heart rate a little fast, but that was to be expected in a man his size; Jim had no sense that this man was upset. 

Until they reached the study or library. Handsome dark wood shelves filled with leather bound books, none of which had ever been opened, Jim's nose told him, so unlike Blair's well-worn and well-loved collection. Carroll stopped at the door and his heart rate skyrocketed, he began to sweat, and Jim could hear the neurons firing as his muscles struggled to support him. 

"Hey, hey," Blair said, taking him by the arm. "Here. Sit down." 

But Carroll pulled angrily away and kicked at a heavy brass stand carrying an enormous globe. "Goddammit," he breathed. He looked at Blair. "Okay, Detective Sandford. Here's where you earn your keep." 

"Sandburg," Blair said idly, but walked to where Carroll was staring. Underneath an enormous painting, an original, Jim saw, but an ugly abstract thing of brown-reds with a splash of parrot green, sat another brass stand, this one much larger and heavier. It was surrounded by mounds of clear crushed glass. He turned back to Carroll. "What did this hold?" 

"A Bible. The Kelsington." 

Blair's eyes opened like Buster Keaton's and his mouth opened as well. He laughed shortly, in disbelief. "You own the Kelsington." 

Carroll puffed with pride. "Yeah. Yeah, I own it. I loan it out sometimes, but it's mine." 

Blair looked down at the stand, where the Bible would have sat, and reverently passed a hand over it. "Mr. Carroll, I'm sorry, but the Kelsington Bible is worth more than money; it's in some ways invaluable, irreplaceable. You should never have had it in a private home." 

"Hey, what are you, a professor? I own it; I'll keep it where I want. It's your job to find it." 

Carroll's words struck Jim to the heart. What are you, a professor? He closed his eyes briefly, opening them to find Blair watching him worriedly. "It's okay," he said noiselessly, and Jim nodded, unbelieving. 

"I'll need the insurance documents for it," Blair said to Carroll, who went to an enormous desk and started digging through it. While he looked, Blair walked up to Jim and put his hand on the small of Jim's back. "You all right?" he asked quietly. 

"Are you?" 

Blair smiled, a little, and nodded. "Thank you," he whispered, and Jim's heart clutched in sorrow. 

* * *

"Simon," Blair caught his captain just outside the men's room door. "Jim and I found some stuff. We have a couple links we'd like you to consider. Maybe you had a run in with one of them, or, I don't know, they have something on somebody you know." 

Simon nodded. "Let me take care of business and I'll be right there." 

Sandburg watched as he entered the men's room. Simon looked tired. Discouraged. He longed to do something for the captain, who'd done so much for him. Permitted Blair to tag after Jim all those years. Accepted him as a member of his team. And when the shit hit the fan, Simon had been there for him, in a way no one other than Jim had ever been. Blair realized he loved Simon. This embarrassed him a little. He'd protected his heart for so many years, enjoying his many friends and varied lovers but never permitting them to draw too near. Maybe it had to do with turning thirty. In Hindu thought, he would be in the householder years, the time to settle down and raise a family. Maybe Simon was part of this family. Part of the tribe. 

Walking back into Major Crimes, Blair looked at the others he'd grown to know so well. Pretty Rhonda, still single and sweet; motherly toward Simon, sisterly toward the detectives. Rafe, no longer the youngest detective since Blair had been awarded his gold shield, but still treated as the novice. Henri, always joking, always flirting. Joel. Jesus, Blair thought, coming to a stop, I love Joel. When the fuck did that happen? 

A hand gently smacked his forehead and he turned to see Jim smiling down at him, eyes creased in pleasure. "What's up, Einstein?" 

Blair started to laugh. It was either that or cry at the realization of the home he'd built here and never realized. He loved it here. He loved them all, especially Jim, of course, the big brother he never had, a surrogate dad, but more than that, dearer than that, because, although he didn't have first-hand knowledge, Blair was pretty damn sure you weren't supposed to get a boner when you saw your dad naked. That was supposed to be the original trauma, not the biggest turn-on. 

He smiled brilliantly up at Jim, who pushed Blair's hair out of his face and said, "Kids today. Aren't you supposed to be working?" 

"Yes, dad," Blair said, just as he was expected to, but he didn't roll his eyes wildly, just continued to smile up at his friend, his very best friend. "Hey, Simon's gonna stop by. Let me show you what I found." 

Back at Jim's desk, they peered into the monitor; Blair was begging Simon to buy a new one as this was killing his eyes. Jim followed the pixels with his finger and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I think this is it, Chief." 

"You do?" Simon asked as he loomed over them. 

"Yeah. Look at this, Captain. Angel Vasconsuelos. Remember him? Big guy, weird facial hair." 

Simon nodded, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember him. He was trouble. We never got him for what he really did; just some, what --" 

"Armed robbery and extortion." 

"Yeah. But he was a murdering son of a bitch. I know it." Simon gazed off into the distance, lost in thought, finding connections, tying it all together. He nodded again. "I think you're right, Jim." 

"Sandburg found it, sir." 

* * *

"Sandburg found it, sir." 

Simon looked sharply at his newest staff member. Simon suspected that Sandburg would always look younger than his age; at thirty, he looked in his mid-twenties. He was thinner than when they'd first met, more fit; his hair was shorter, although growing quickly. The earrings were gone most days, and his clothes were a little more respectable. Well, marginally. 

The biggest change, in Simon's opinion, was his presence. Always self-assured in his original field of anthropology, Sandburg's confidence now extended to areas Simon was more familiar with. He was calming with angry or distressed visitors to Major Crimes, whether victims or perps. He thought quickly and made lightening connections between seemingly disparate facts. He'd always stood up for himself; even as the shortest, lightest, and usually youngest member of a group of cops, he could hold his own. The fact that he was Ellison's partner, of course, added weight, but in a short time, Sandburg earned the respect his partner had demanded for him. 

Simon often wondered about the relationship between Jim and Blair. He'd been a detective for many years before being promoted to captain, and that promotion was based in part on his closure rate. He could still figure things out, but he wasn't sure what he was watching. An exceptionally close friendship? Partners often were close, closer than spouses, closer than brothers, but what they had -- Simon narrowed his eyes and watched his two men as they hunched over the computer, constructing another search. Two more different men he could not imagine, and yet there they were. Saving his ass, or planning to die in the attempt. 

"Okay, Sandburg," Simon interrupted them. "What's the connection, and how'd you find it?" 

Sandburg beamed at him as if he were a prize pupil in a difficult class. "Well, Simon," he began in his pedantic tone, his professor face firmly in place, "I started with Genevieve and worked backwards. My theory was that someone already had a grudge with you, and when Genevieve was here that night," he blushed slightly, "um, Jim told me what happened, that you were right next to her. I thought maybe somebody saw it and told somebody else. So I just looked up who else was in Major Crimes that night." 

"And found?" 

"This guy." He pointed to the flickering monitor; the search was finished and an older white male's balding head appeared in a small jpeg, next to a long list of crimes. "Anton Villa." 

"Tony Villa. Oh, shit." Simon remembered him. Vicious. Smart, although not smart enough to avoid being caught. But caught because he couldn't bear to stop beating whomever he was working over. He loved violence, loved the sound of fists against flesh. Simon knew Tony Villa. He'd been beaten by Villa one memorable night, just before he'd made captain, and had been saved only by some uniforms who happened by. Chance had saved Simon that time, and put Tony Villa in jail for a long while. Yeah. Tony Villa was smart enough and mean enough to get something rolling. "I didn't think he had the kinda connections needed to get IA on my case." 

"He doesn't. But Balducci did. And Villa worked with Vasconsuelos, who worked for Balducci, who had a lotta money invested in real estate in Cascade. And his son, Tony Junior, is active in local politics. He's a city councilman. Little stuff, but he has ambition." Blair pointed to a new screen he'd brought up while talking, that showed a "Balducci for mayor" banner rippling across the top of a red, white, and blue FAQ sheet. "He won't win this time, but he'll get his name known. And when people get tired of men they perceive as insiders, they'll try a Jessie Ventura kinda guy. Maybe someone like Balducci." 

"Shit." 

"So if Balducci loved his old man, or even if he didn't, he'd feel compelled to do something about the terrible death of his father. And if Villa persuaded Vasconsuelos to persuade Balducci that you were at fault, and either Vasconsuelos or Balducci gave this young woman money -- you'd be where you are right now." 

"Shit." 

The three men remained standing, clustered around the flickering monitor. Simon was remembering the beating he'd suffered at Villa's hands. Simon was a big man, taller than Villa, but not as heavy and certainly not as skilled with his fists. His gun had gone flying into the night and he'd been pushed against the crennelated brick wall, cold and scratchy against his clothes. He remembered Villa's face, glowing with pleasure as he brought his fists thundering down into Simon's face and chest and stomach again and again. He remembered that sensation of being struck in the chest particularly well; he'd been convinced he'd die of heart failure, that he'd never see his wife or son again, never sit behind the battered table in the interrogation room, never feel the adrenaline surge when he secured the bubble to the roof of his car and chased down some asshole. All he'd know would be the bubbling of blood in his lungs and the faltering of his heart and the pounding pounding pain of Villa's anger. 

Then suddenly it had been over. Just like that. And Simon was alive, Vasconsuelos and Villa were still in jail, Balducci Senior was dead, and Balducci Junior was, most likely, coming after him like some harpy of vengeance. 

But vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, Simon reminded himself, determined not to reflect his concerns to these two men. He sighed heavily. "Thanks, Sandburg. Excellent work. What's the next step?" 

Sandburg looked up to Jim, who hid a smile and told Simon, "We're working on it, sir." And that was all Simon could get from his men that afternoon. 

* * *

"So, Chief, what's so special about a Kelsington Bible?" Jim asked as he drove back to the station to start background checks on Carroll and his housekeeper. 

"Whoa, Jim, it's an amazing piece of art. Created in the fifteen hundreds by a posse of Irish monks, it was stolen by the British in, I dunno, the seventeen hundreds maybe. For a while it was in the British museum, then it was at Winchester Cathedral, then another museum, I forget which. During the second world war, it was moved for safekeeping and the British government lost track of it. It turned up in New York in the, hmmm, late fifties? Anyway, it's been owned by probably a dozen people since then. Carroll's the latest. But that's a crime. It should be in the museum, in the Huntington, I think, in southern California, right next to the Gutenberg and the Chaucer they have." 

Jim let the lecture wash over him with pleasure, nodding occasionally to let Blair know he was listening. When he paused, Jim said, "So this really is a major crime?" which, as he knew it would, set Blair off again. 

"Oh, oh, _man_ , when this gets in the news, _yeah_ , big-time debates about who should possess things like this. Can they belong to an individual or do they belong to the world and should, therefore, be housed in museums? Of course, museums, there's a whole other hotbed of discussion -- are they too political? What's their function in society? But for our purposes," he reined himself in, "what we need to figure out is the connection between the Kelsington, the glass, and the other burglaries where there's been glass." 

He pulled out a notepad and began listing the break-ins they'd been following since assigned this case. Four, so far, but nothing as valuable as the Kelsington. As he wrote, he said, "I'd like to go back to the other homes, Jim, and look around again. This theft has me wondering if I didn't miss something elsewhere." 

Jim nodded. "You didn't miss any physical evidence," he assured his partner, "but it's a good idea. Sometimes seeing the places again in a different frame of mind can get you brainstorming. A fresh start." 

Blair nodded as well, but didn't raise his eyes from his pad. "You'd, uh, you wouldn't let me miss anything, would you, Jim?" 

"No, Chief. Don't forget; you might be the lead, but I'm with you on this. We close it, it's both our names." 

"You think we'll close it?" 

"With our closure rate? The odds are on our side." 

* * *

"Sandburg." 

"Yeah, Jim?" Blair stared intently at the book he was holding in front of his face, carrying a toothpaste-mounded toothbrush. Jim watched him in bemusement, a slight smile curling his lips. Blair stood in the bathroom doorway, apparently having forgotten Jim's presence already. 

"Sandburg." 

Finally, Blair looked up. "What? I'm trying to read, Jim. 

Jim rolled his eyes and gave up. "Never mind. Later, man. He pulled a light-weight jacket off the coat rack. 

Blair looked at the toothbrush in his hand, then up at Jim. "No, no, I'm sorry, just a little absorbed." He disappeared into the bathroom and re-emerged, minus the toothbrush, to set the book down on the kitchen table. Then he stepped between Jim and the front door. Jim continued to pull on his jacket. "Where you going?" 

"To the bakery. I feel like some coffee and a brownie or something. Thought you might want to come, before you brush your teeth." 

Blair stared at Jim as intently as he had his book a few moments ago. Jim wondered if he were as easy to read. "Now. At ten at night, just before you normally go to bed, you want to go to the bakery? Is it even open?" 

Jim rolled his shoulders, a combination of stress relief and response. 

"Okay. Let's go." Blair grabbed his heavier jacket and a scarf; Jim watched, in better humor now, as he wrapped the striped length around his neck and flung a fringed end over his shoulder. 

The bakery was open, and a tray of almond croissants was being pulled from the oven as they entered. Jim paid as Blair ferried the coffee and sweets to a table in the back, away from the counter of tempting coffee cakes and sweet rolls. "Look at that," he said as Jim sat down, pointing at a shelf of triangular wedges of pecan-laden shortbread, edges dipped in dark chocolate. 

"Next time," Jim promised, and bit into the croissant, buttery flakes exploding in his mouth. He closed his eyes and focused on the texture and smell and, best of all, taste. When he opened his eyes, Blair was watching him closely, his professor face on again. Jim smiled and wiped his mouth. "S'good," he said inarticulately through the rush of pleasure. 

"Yeah, I guess so," Blair smiled. He picked up his own croissant, sniffed it, and took an enormous bite. He nodded his head vigorously. "Yeah," he said indistinctly; "you're right." 

After a few minutes of silent pleasure, Jim took a drink of coffee and wiped his mouth again. "Listen, Blair," he began, but Blair rolled his eyes dramatically. 

"I knew it," he said. "I knew you wouldn't just invite me for coffee. What. What?" 

"Well, Jesus, if you're going to be that way . . ." 

"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You bought the coffee, you ask the questions." 

Now Jim rolled his eyes. "Christ, Sandburg, why is everything such an ordeal with you? Can't a guy just ask you a question?" 

"A guy can ask, but you're not a guy; you're Jim. You're the Sentinel, you're my partner, my landlord, my best friend. You are not a 'guy.'" 

Well, that was true, Jim thought, sipping more coffee. Maybe this was a stupid idea. But Blair saw the thought passing through his mind and said, "Oh no you don't. What?" 

Jim lowered his head and leaned forward a bit. "Listen, Sandburg. You once asked me what it meant to me to have a Guide. I've thought a lot about that question, trying to answer it. But it occurred to me that I don't know what it means to you, to _be_ a Guide." 

Blair instantly dropped his eyes to his napkin and began rolling flakes from his croissant between this thumb and forefinger. He tilted his head thoughtfully, mouth thinning, in thought or annoyance, Jim couldn't tell. He bit his lower lip, and raised his heavy-lidded eyes to Jim's. "I want to ask you why, but I don't want you to think I'm stalling." 

"You're stalling." 

Blair smiled, and nodded slightly. "Yeah," he agreed, softly, hesitantly. 

"Please, Blair." 

One last time Blair studied his croissant as if it held the answers, and then put his coffee down and wiped his fingers on a napkin. He swallowed, his prominent adam's apple bobbing, then looked Jim straight in the eyes. Jim looked steadily back, feeling his heart rate speeding up to match Sandburg's. "This Guide stuff," he began, then looked away, out into the night, or more probably his reflection in the window next to them. He sighed. "Jesus, this is hard to say." 

"It's okay. Whatever." 

Jim sat there, a little stunned. Sandburg's heart pounded in his ears, like the drums of his earth music; he could hear the valves of his heart opening and closing, he had a slight murmur, nothing dangerous, just an added syncopation to the underlying rhythm of his life. Slowly, Jim became aware that his own body moved to that rhythm, his breath and blood and body. He was dancing to the music of Blair, even as he sat quietly in his padded bench across the table from his friend, who stared solemnly back 

"It's okay," Jim finally said again, but the warmth in his voice reassured Blair; he sat back and took a deep breath. Seeing the comfort Blair took from his words, Jim added, "I mean it. I was hoping you'd say that. After the, the dissertation," he stumbled over the words, "when I knew you couldn't be jonesing after a paper about me, I needed to know why you stayed." 

Blair smiled, that full-on smile that knocked Jim's heart sideways. "Oh, man, I told you. I love it." 

Now it was Jim's turn to drop his eyes and blush, but he had always been impressed by courage and he respected the man across from him, so he raised his eyes again and smiled. "Yeah. I figured that out." 

Blair nodded happily and took a big bite of his croissant, reminding Jim of his own food. 

* * *

"I know that IA guy is being paid off," Blair said intently, refusing to meet Jim's eyes. The windshield wipers thwacked rhythmically, and cars passing in the street flung water against Jim's side window. He had pulled to the curb in indecision; he disliked arguing with Blair but didn't know how to avoid it. 

Jim watched Blair; Blair watched the rain. The bizarre dry weather they'd had while he and Sandburg were at the glass factory had succumbed last week to the prevailing roll of the jet stream and returned Cascade's normal drizzle and fog. They sat silent for long minutes. Finally, Jim said miserably, "I don't doubt you --" at the precise moment that Blair said, "I, you're probably right --" and they laughed in relief. Jim gestured at Blair. 

"I know you're right," he said. "We can't do anything without proof. But can't we, like, _find_ proof?" 

Jim nodded, pleased to be able to agree with Blair. "Yeah. And we will. But we gotta do it right. I learned my lesson with Tommy Juno, Chief. I won't make that mistake again." Blair nodded in return, and opened a bottle of water to sip. 

"Then what?" 

Jim considered. "We could just happen to be where he is. Unobtrusively going about our business." 

Blair kept nodding, looking happier. "Yeah. Yeah, it's a free country. We can go where we want. Just because our errands keep him in sight . . ." 

Well, Jim thought, it wasn't much of a plan, but it was a plan. It gave them something to do, let them feel as though they were helping Simon, and made Blair happy. Looked at that way, it was a brilliant plan. 

He sniffed vigorously, catching a cold no doubt, and started the engine. 

Something to do. 

* * *

"That _fucker_ ," Jim said, furious, and sneezed sloppily. Blair moaned in distaste and pushed the half-empty kleenex box across the pickup's front seat at him. 

"Come on, man, be a mensch and cover your mouth and nose," he begged, wiping his hands on a tissue. 

"Sorry," Jim mumbled, still focused on the two men huddled beneath an umbrella. "Get the pics, okay?" 

"All right already," Blair said, snapping with a little disposable camera. "I can't believe they'd be stupid enough to meet in public." 

"It's the rain. They figure no one's out in it. And they've been doing this a while. People get sloppy." 

"Thank God. When we gonna tell Simon?" 

"When the pictures are developed." The IA guy, now irrevocably proven dirty, and Vasconsuelos shook hands and parted, each to his own expensive car. Jim looked at Blair in satisfaction. "Let's have these developed at the station." Blair nodded and carefully tucked the camera into his backpack as Jim started the engine. 

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit," Jim mumbled as he raced through his shower and shave. Sandburg had already left, off to the Academy; at least he had regular hours now. But Jim was late, there was nothing he could do to roll the clock back, but he could maybe be not _as_ late if he hurried. He rinsed his face and combed down his hair with water, then dried quickly and ran upstairs. "Shit!" Jeans, okay, but what to wear with them? He pulled on a white cotton tee, but it was too cold. It was Friday, the day before laundry, and everything seemed to be in the hamper. He thought about digging through it but couldn't abide the thought of smelling stale shirt all day. 

On an impulse, he jogged downstairs and into Sandburg's room. God knows Blair borrowed his clothes often enough, with little remorse; turnabout was fair play, right? Only Sandburg was a medium and Jim a double-extra large. But there, wadded on Sandburg's bed, was that enormous Fair Isle sweater he'd wear as the top layer on the coldest days, thick heavy wool with a handsome design knitted into the shoulders and neck. He picked it up and sniffed cautiously; a nice smell. A Blair smell. He could live with that. He pulled it over his head, trying not to stretch it out too badly. 

He looked in the mirror over Sandburg's dresser, worried he'd look ridiculous. But he looked pretty good. The sweater fit fine; maybe a little tighter than he normally wore sweaters, but not weirdly tight. The colors were good on him, too, he thought staring thoughtfully at himself. Starting, he realized he was still late, and ran back upstairs for his shoes. 

Nobody else seemed to think the sweater was weird, either. In fact, the assistant district attorney he was late to see seemed to think it looked just fine. She complimented it twice and him once, offered him coffee, and lingered over their discussion more than Jim's experience told him was necessary. 

Jesus, simply _wearing_ Sandburg's clothes drew women. What must it be like to _be_ Sandburg? Jim trashed that thought immediately; besides, Blair had changed in the past four years. He really didn't run after women the same way. But Jim was still uncomfortable at the thought. 

That morning, he'd hoped to beat Sandburg home, return the sweater to the mess on his bed, but he was late in the evening, too, and didn't wearily unlock the door until almost seven. By then he'd forgotten he was doing anything unusual; the sweater had been warm and soft and comforting against the cold grey afternoon spent talking to possible witnesses, and snug against the bite of the evening air. The warmth of the loft rolled out and enveloped him when he opened the door. He smelled baked apples and cinnamon, cilantro and chiles, vinegar, and Blair. That reminded him of the sweater, but it was too late. 

"Jim! Man, just in time," Blair called cheerily, his face flushed from the heat and steam of the kitchen. "I picked up empanadas from that new taqueria and they look great. Plus I baked apples; I remembered how you liked them at Simon's aunt's last Thanksgiving. Sit down, sit down." He smiled at Jim, and Jim's heart unclenched, his muscles relaxed, and smiled for what felt like the first time that day. 

"Thanks, Chief," he said kindly, trying not to sound gruff in his attempt to hide his pleasure. "Everything smells great." 

Blair was staring at him, mouth open, his eyes big and blue. They often seemed bigger to Jim these days, now that all that hair was gone that used to hide them. Finally, he said, "Um. You're wearing the sweater Naomi gave me." 

Jim looked down in embarrassment, and at the sweater on him. "Yeah. I'm sorry, Blair. I couldn't find anything to wear, it was all in the dirty clothes, and this was out, and I didn't think you'd mind too much, and I'll have it dry-cleaned, okay?" 

Blair came around from behind the counter and smiled at him, then put his hands on Jim's wrists, rubbing the cuffs of the sweater. "Hey, don't apologize. It looks _great_ on you. Better than on me; I swim in it. I don't know who Naomi was thinking of when she sent it. You keep it, okay?" 

"No, Blair, your _mom_ gave it to you -- " 

"No, no, man, it'll be mine, it's just, it's just that you're gonna wear it, you'll wear it, right?" 

They stared at each other for a moment, Jim acutely aware of the Blair's hands on him, then Jim nodded. "We'll _both_ wear it, okay? It'll be _our_ sweater." 

Blair blushed and dropped his hands, turning back to the kitchen. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbled. 

Jim watched him, loving him and his unexpected shyness. "Hey, how'd it go at the academy today?" 

* * *

Simon stared at the glossy photographs spread across his desktop. "So?" he asked. 

"So? Simon, look, he's shaking hands with Balducci." 

"Sandburg. Balducci is an up-and-coming politician. He shakes hands with everybody. Maybe he's thanking him for a campaign contribution. Maybe their kids go to school together. Maybe --" 

"Simon," Jim interrupted. "We know that. But we also have grounds to investigate now. There's a direct trail leading from IA hassling you about Genevieve to Balducci. Get us a phone tap, or a search warrant. We'll find what we need." 

Simon rubbed his forehead vigorously. "I can't. Wait, wait," he insisted, making a pushing gesture toward them. "Think for a minute. He's investigating _me_. I can't be the one investigating his investigation." He sighed. "Go see Finkelman. She'll help you." 

Jim and Simon stared at each other, Blair watching them like a tennis match. Finally, Jim nodded slightly and picked up the photographs. "Come on, Chief." 

* * *

"Hey, Jim," Blair said through a mouthful of sourdough bread, staring into the refrigerator hoping for inspiration, "What do you think about me getting a certificate in forensic science technology?" 

Jim looked up from the couch where he'd been lost in the sports section. "Another degree, Einstein? Why?" 

Blair gave up on finding anything good in the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and wandered over to the couch where he stood, twisting the plastic cap off and on. "Well, I think it would make me a better detective. The catalog says it would 'strengthen professional competence,' which sounds good. But also it's interesting. I'm really enjoying the incident scene documentation module we're in right now, and the next step would be forensic science." 

He finally sat down in the chair across from Jim, who neatly folded the paper and set it on top of the others on the coffee table. "I think if you're interested, you should go for it. But I'd wait until you finish the academy and work with me for a while, get used to things. It's stressful to keep taking on more and more work. Almost to himself, he added, "Although you seem to thrive on it." 

Blair took a gulp of water, wiped his mouth, and nodded. "Yeah. I think I do that to distract myself. Take on so much I can't think so, um, so I don't have to think." 

Jim knew he was being given some insight into Blair that should take advantage of. "Not think about what," he asked before Blair could make his escape. 

Not surprisingly, Blair stood and headed back to the kitchen. "Oh, you know, stuff. Man, what're we gonna do for dinner?" 

"Your turn to cook, Junior; you figure it out." Heavy sigh from the kitchen, then the beep of the cordless phone being turned on and speed dialed. "Mu shu pork," Jim said over his shoulder, and Blair started laughing. "I recognized the beeps for the phone number." 

"That's amazing! I gotta write this down," but then Happy Gardens answered and Blair had to remember what _he_ wanted and by the time he hung up the phone, he'd forgotten his defenses and came back behind the couch, peering over it at the headlines. 

"Not think about what," Jim asked again, and Blair lifted his head enough to look into Jim's eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, then Blair stood up and took another sip of water. 

"You're persistent." 

"You're avoiding the question." 

He flung himself back down into the chair, sprawled out, studying Jim across the coffee table. Jim could tell he was marshaling his thoughts, preparing to answer cautiously while appearing to be forthcoming. 

"Knock it off, Sandburg. Just tell me the truth." 

"You know the answer, Jim. Everything. What a moron I've been; how I endangered your life and fucked up my own; embarrassed you and Naomi and Simon, not to mention my friends at the university and station; how I'll always, _always_ have a shadow over me, the guy who lied, the fraud, the cheat." He took another sip of water, hand trembling slightly with the strength of his emotions. "Everything." 

Jim studied him. His friend. Who had lost almost everything and, yes, it had been naive of Blair to think he could protect Jim, but it had been equally naive of Jim to believe he could, too. They'd chosen to live in a fantasy world because if they'd faced the truth early on, as early as Brackett, they would have had no reason to continue their relationship. And neither one of them wanted that. They'd taken the easy way out, and now they were paying. Well, Blair was paying. Jim would get what he want. 

"What do you get out of this?" 

"What?" 

"Why go to the academy? Why be a cop? You could do anything. You're young, and fucking brilliant. Even if you couldn't get back into Rainier, there have to be schools that would accept you. Or you could write -- you're a great writer. Or teach. What do you get out of this?" 

Blair stared at him as if he'd spoken in tongues. "Do you want me not to be a cop?" he finally asked quietly. 

"No! I mean, yes, I want you to be a cop. Jesus. I'm not an idiot. I've already got you broken in as a partner; you're a natural. From the very first day we worked together, you were better than many veterans. Putting isolated clues together and coming up with the big picture, tossing ideas out like firecrackers, having insights _nobody_ else would've had. Sandburg, Blair, how many times do I have to tell you you're the best cop I've ever known? I _know_ what I get out of this. What do _you_ get out of this?" 

"You. I get you, Jim. I get to be your partner. And, I mean, yeah, I get to do good, fight the good fight, catch bad guys, and man, that roller coaster ride," he shook his head, smiling crookedly, "yeah, I can do that. But mostly, Jim, mostly I get to hang with you." 

Now Jim stared at him in some disbelief, a wild pleasure building in his gut tamped down by the fear that nothing that wonderful could be true. Before he could speak, though, Sandburg was up out of the chair again, to toss the empty water bottle in the recycling bin and head into the bathroom. Jim followed him with his eyes, but he understood that this was more revealing that Sandburg was comfortable with. Another time. Now that they were going to be real partners, there would also be another time. Jim smiled, and clicked on the tv. 

* * *

"What'd your mom say?" Jim asked from the kitchen where he was chopping onions. 

"The usual. She's studying with a new guru in Japan. Won't be here for the holidays." Again, Jim silently added. "She loves me and sends her best to you." 

"Not her love?"" Jim teased. 

"Hey! That's my _mother_ ," Blair started before catching the look on Jim's face. He rolled his eyes. "What's for dinner?" 

"Soup. Start chopping whatever would taste good in chicken broth." 

"Good choice for a night like this." Above their heads, rain drummed on the clerestory windows. "Fuck, it's cold." 

"Still?" Jim put down the knife and checked the thermostat; it was sixty-eight. He nudged it up a bit, then pulled a heavy flannel shirt from the coatrack. "Put back your arms," he said, and Blair shrugged into the warmth. Jim let his hands slip down Blair's arms and they stood for a moment, leaning into each other. Then Jim sighed heavily and stepped back; picking up the knife, he started peeling garlic. 

Blair sliced carrots into even coins, until he had two handsful. He pulled celery from the crisper and broke off two stalks. "Do we have any corn?" 

"Frozen." 

"Let's put some in." Jim nodded and grabbed the bag as Blair said casually, "How do you picture your dials?" 

"What?" They exchanged glances, Jim's a little annoyed. Then Jim said, "Just like you taught me to. Big round ones with numbers running from let to right, from ten to zero. Why?" 

"Just curious. Do you have just one dial that you use for everything?" There was a long silence, too long, and Blair turned to find Jim smiling with embarrassment. "What?" 

Jim shook his head. "I suppose I can't persuade you not to ask." 

Now Blair smiled. "You suppose correctly." 

"There are five dials for each of my senses. They look like barometers, something you'd see on a ship. Brass, with gold trim and black numbers. There's one for pain. You'd think that'd be touch, but it has its own dial. An ugly black thing, heavy cast iron metal, with a big black needle." 

"So six dials? How are they arranged?" 

Jim shook his head again and sneaked a glance at Blair. He was watching Jim avidly, mouth slightly open. For a moment he looked like the kid who'd lied his way into Jim's life so many years ago. But he was Detective Sandburg now, sworn to serve and protect. His partner. 

"No. Seven dials." Blair creased his brown in puzzlement; Jim was embarrassed but equally curious and so forced himself to keep his gaze steadily on Sandburg. "One dial for you, Chief. The biggest and most elaborate. Like, like something in a museum. Silver, like your earrings, with smaller dials set in it." 

After another pause, Blair asked, "What does it measure?" 

A grin quirked at Jim's mouth even as he felt himself blush. "Your well-being. Your heart and lungs. Your energy level. Your distance from me." He finally dropped his eyes and began scraping the chopped veggies into the stock pot. He felt Blair's curiosity settle over him like a cloak, familiar and a little scratchy. 

When he turned back, Blair was opening a large can of chicken broth, so he moved out of the way and let him empty it over the vegetables. He dropped in two peppercorns, stirred once, put a lid on the pot, and turned on the gas. 

"Half an hour?" 

"Little less, I think, " Blair advised. Jim nodded a set a timer for twenty minutes. He felt Blair take his hand and obediently followed him to the couch. They sat, still holding hands. Blair gestured at their hands and said softly, "Nobody would understand this." 

"No, Chief, "Jim agreed, wondering into what new territory his Guide would lead him now. 

" _I_ don't understand this." 

"No, Chief?" 

"No, and I feel like I should, and sometimes I think I _do_ , but I can't retain it. I think, I think maybe I don't _want_ to understand it." 

"No, Chief?" 

"Stop saying that!" And they both laughed, and Jim thought his heart was going to break, right there in his own home, on his own couch, with vegetable soup cooking in the kitchen. When Blair met Jim's eyes, Jim saw tears in them, not from their laughter. "Tell me, Jim," he whispered. "What does it mean?" 

"I've already told you what I think," he said quietly, "But you don't want to hear it." 

"Tell me again." 

"Blair, with all my heart, I believe we are meant to be. I believe you're my Guide as much as I'm your Sentinel. I believe we could no more stop this than we could stop breathing." Jim held on as Blair tried to pull away his hand. He wondered if he should regret the simile, but then realized it was literally true. "No, listen, you asked. You can't keep asking and then not listen." 

Blair studied the floor between their feet. "Maybe I just need to hear this a lot." 

Jim nodded. "Maybe. But I don't know how many more times I can say this. Each time you deny this, it's a rejection, Blair. It hurts." 

Blair met his eyes again, concern shining in them. " _Never_ a rejection. _Never_. Just --" His eyes slide away again. "I'm Naomi's child, Jim. She's off and running every few months. It's hard to contemplate -- destiny. Eternity. Fate. Whatever you're suggesting." 

Jim raised his other hand and lightly stroked Blair's face and then into his hair, running his fingers through the waves, happy that Blair had decided to grow it out again. "You're my Guide," he said softly, and heard the love in his voice. Blair blushed, but smiled a little. 

"Yeah. Kinda cool, hunh." 

* * *

Sipping nasty lukewarm coffee, Blair stared out the side window of the truck, wondering how long they'd be stuck here. Jim was down the block, supposedly talking to Rafe and Henri but in reality using a gas station's bathroom. The radio whispering with static beneath the dashboard and traffic from the overhead freeway two blocks away were the only sounds his limited ears could hear; the soft mist obscuring the windshield was utterly silent in the chilly night. 

Jim jogged up to the truck and climbed in the cab. "Shit, it's cold," he said, and turned on the heater. "I'm surprised you aren't bitching about it." 

Blair held up one mitten-enclosed hand. "I've got about six layers of clothes on, big guy. After over five years of waiting in the truck for you, I finally caught a clue." Jim chuckled beside him, and twisted open the thermos he'd taken with him. 

"Fresh coffee. Well, fresh in the sense that it's only been in the thermos for a few minutes." He refilled Blair's styrofoam cup and poured himself some, adding sugar and the awful white stuff Blair swore was a carcinogen. 

"Thanks," Blair murmured, still staring out into the damp darkness. 

"Cold and wet is your world?" Jim suggested, but Blair remained silent. Finally, Jim nudged him, earning a glare. "What is wrong with you?" Blair shook his head, missing the soft warmth of his long hair swinging against his neck and face. He was tired. In spite of his brave words to Jim, he was cold. He had to take a dump. He was bored bored bored. "Blair?" Jim asked, a note of uncertainty entering his voice. Blair knew from experience that the next emotion in the spectrum would be annoyance. 

Before Jim could say, "Sandburg!" Blair sighed and turned to look at him. He studied his friend as best he could in the dim light of a distant streetlamp. How many stakeouts had they sat in a cold vehicle? How many nights and afternoons and mornings had they whiled away hours, hours that could never be recovered? Yet this was his life now. One he had chosen for himself. The brass ring, the roller coaster, the ultimate prize. Sitting hour after hour in an uncomfortable seat in a pickup as old as he was, watching for something that would never happen. 

"I'm sorry, Jim," he said at last, sounding not very sorry even to himself. "I don't mean to take it out on you." 

"Take what out on me?" 

He shook his head again, eyes sliding away from his friend's worried face. "Nothing. I'm just tired. Sorry," he said again. 

He felt Jim staring at him, could feel his rising concern. In a minute, he'd be angry, and Blair didn't know if he could deal with that. He couldn't figure out what to do. He felt stupid, irritated. 

Suddenly Jim reached out to Blair, putting his right arm around Blair's shoulders and scooting a little closer on the seat. He stared intently at Blair, who watched him cautiously. "I know," he finally said, his voice almost a whisper. "I know this isn't your dream. It isn't what you trained for. It isn't what I wanted for you. I'm sorry, Blair. But you. You said you wanted this. If you don't." Jim stopped speaking abruptly and removed his arm. "If you don't, it's okay," he finished in a normal tone of voice. 

"Are you on drugs?" Blair asked him, receiving a scathing glare in response. "Jesus, James, no fucking way. I'm having a bad night, okay? Like you have about three times a week. Just let me sulk and get over it." 

Jim looked as if Blair had hit him in the head with a two by four. "A bad night? Wait a minute, I do not have bad nights three times a week. What the hell are you saying?" 

Blair held his mittened hand up again, in the time-honored gesture for stop. "I'm not going to argue with you, Ellison. I want some downtime. We need to watch the house. Neither will happen if we argue. Drink your disgusting coffee and keep your eyes open. I'll get over this, okay?" The two men stared at each other for almost a minute, before Jim sat back and sipped his coffee. "And you do too have bad nights." Jim snorted, but remained silent. 

Blair felt guilty, but not guilty enough to apologize for having told the truth. It was too weird knowing that his partner thought they were genetically determined to be together. He probably thought Blair had been genetically forced to sabotage his dissertation and academic career. He didn't know fuck about genetics, was all that proved, but still. Blair felt trapped enough; he didn't want to believe his very DNA had bound him to this moment. 

"Fuck," Jim said suddenly, and thrust his coffee into Blair's hand as he started the pickup. "There he goes." And there we go, Blair thought, rolling down the window to toss the coffee onto the street, then stashing the cups in the plastic trash bag hanging from the cigarette lighter knob, trying not to bang his head against anything as Jim took off with his usual aggressive acceleration, following a dark Lincoln Continental. 

"Hey, don't give us away," he said, but from Jim's face Blair knew he was listening to the conversation in the car they followed. 

"Sixth and Dunne," Jim murmured, and Blair picked up the mic to let their backup know where they were headed. "He's on a cell phone, talking to someone, now he's yelling." Suddenly the large car ahead of them shot off, careening around a corner, wheels squealing, and Blair grabbed the door handle and the back of the seat behind Jim as they followed. "He doesn't know we're here," Jim assured Blair, still eavesdropping. "He's just in a shitting hurry." That reminded Blair of his own bowel's needs, but as usual, there was no time. I'll be constipated for a week, he thought resignedly as Jim took another sweeping turn. 

The Lincoln shot up an entrance to 101, flying by slower drivers as he passed them in the emergency lane. "That's it, call it in," Jim said, and Blair put the murphy light on the roof of the truck while Jim hit the siren. The Lincoln surged ahead, swerving from lane to lane, passing between cars who pulled anxiously aside. 

"Wait, Jim, slow down," Blair said, recognizing the road suddenly. He braced his feet on the floorboards as if he controlled the brakes. "Slow down, goddammit!" and Jim obediently decelerated as they watched the Lincoln take the curve too fast, far too fast, fishtailing as he tried to gain control, then dinging into a Toyota pickup, a boxy Volvo, swinging from lane to lane across the wide road and then plunging through the aluminum barrier and down, disappearing from their sight. 

Jim slammed on his brakes and negotiated his way to the side of the road. The two men leapt from the car and raced back to the peeled guard rail, peering down at the Lincoln. It balanced on its side; as they watched, it slowly rolled onto its back. Jim put his arm across Blair's chest to keep him from chasing after it. "Too late," he said shortly. "Too fucking late." 

Blair stared down at the car, watching its tires rotating uselessly. It started to rain harder, the mist turning into icy bullets that struck his face forcefully enough to hurt. He'd just watched a man die. Somewhere, he heard sirens. 

As they stood there in the increasingly fierce rain, he realized that Jim was staring at him. He looked up at his partner's worried face. Without conscious volition, he stepped closer and put his hands on Jim's shoulders. Jim shook his head and moved away. "It's okay, Blair," he said sadly. "I understand." And Blair watched his partner walk back to the truck to see where their back up was this sad night. I'm afraid, Blair told himself, making an unhappy discovery; I'm afraid of what we mean. 

* * *

Two days later, arriving home from a silent ride back from a special assignment, Blair slammed the cupboard door shut, enjoying Jim's flinch at the noise. He half-dropped the saucepan onto the burners, letting it clatter before righting it and opening the refrigerator to pull out the container of leftover soup to heat. He could feel Jim practically vibrating in anger, standing on the other side of the table watching him. "I assume you want to eat." 

"Blair " 

"Dinner, Jim? Do you want some dinner?" 

"Yeah. Please." 

Blair bit his lip but continued working with his back to Jim. "Soup and bread do? Want a salad?" 

"No. Just soup is fine. Blair " 

"Why don't you take a shower? It'll be ready when you're done." 

After a long minute, Jim obeyed and headed upstairs to pull off his gun and badge, and gather his night clothes. Blair felt a tendril of guilt, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and regularly. "Process this," he whispered to himself. "Just get over it." He didn't know if he cared that Jim heard. 

When the soup was on the table and Jim was out of the shower in his black robe, sitting quietly at the table, Blair realized he couldn't share a table with him, or eat anything, with all the anger roiling in his stomach. He put his hands over the back of his chair and stood watching Jim watch him. "I can't do this, Jim," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm gonna go out for a while. I'll walk down Prospect to the pier, and I'll keep my eyes open. I'll be okay. I just need to get out for a bit." 

To Blair's consternation, Jim didn't try to forbid him from leaving. He nodded and picked up a spoon, dropping his head to begin eating. Blair watched him for a few seconds longer, and then grabbed his jacket and left. 

By the time he was halfway down the stairs, he was sorry. He knew he was being an asshole. His mother would be ashamed of his behavior. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped, kicking his heel against the icy cement. He shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets and tried to slow his heart rate. 

That afternoon, they'd had yet another little scare. Just another day in the life of a cop, but still. They'd been asked to assist several teams investigating the theft of a thousand-pound cache of explosives stolen from a mine a few miles outside of Cascade. The locks to the shed that housed the ammonium nitrate, dynamite, blasting caps, and detonator cord had been cut last night, and they'd joined about fifteen ATF and FBI agents and the sheriff's deputies working the case. 

But it hadn't been much of a case. The explosives were only a short ways away from the mine, stacked carelessly in an open trailer parked by the side of the road, hidden under a load of Christmas trees. Jim's nose had caught the scent beneath the pine, but one of the deputies had gotten a little confused, thought Jim was one of the thieves, and for a moment, it looked as though he'd shoot Jim and the explosives, too. 

Afterwards, Blair had led Jim away from the noise and excitement, out into the woods. He'd patted Jim's shoulders and back and arms, reassuring himself that all was well. But Jim had pulled away, not roughly, not unkindly, but firmly. Blair had followed, one hand on Jim's elbow, and the two men had performed an awkward pas de deux, scuffling silently in the pine needles. 

Finally, Blair had used a self-defense move he'd learned at the academy and pulled Jim's elbow back and up, startling a gasp from him and stopping them cold. "What, Jim?" he'd demanded quietly. 

"Just don't, Blair. Please. I can't do this." 

"Do what?" 

But Jim had just stared down at him, his hurt look hurting Blair. "We shouldn't do this." 

Blair knew he meant what he called their ritual, the emotional embrace that reassured them each that the other was well. It had started almost a year ago, the night of the press conference, and in the time since then he'd grown to need the bodily contact with Jim, the tangible evidence of well-being, the animal presence of his friend. But for reasons Blair only partially understood, Jim had begun backing away from this contact. It profoundly hurt Blair, and now he was angry. 

I should just ask him why, he told himself, muttering. He would do it if he knew how much I wanted him to. Needed him to. All he knows is that I resent needing it. Fear needing him. 

But Blair also wondered why he needed it. He wasn't prepared to answer that question; he just wanted Jim back. He wanted to stand in his arms and be comforted by his warm scent. 

Before he could start down the street, the door opened behind him and he felt Jim's hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," Jim said. "I don't. Please come in." 

Blair stared out at their neighborhood, enjoying the lights reflecting off the damp streets and the scent of wet shrubbery. "Okay." They stood together for a few second more, and then Blair turned, leading the way back upstairs. 

He didn't know what was wrong. He didn't know why it was wrong. But tonight they'd pretend things were normal. Eventually, they'd figure it out. 

* * *

Jim lay in bed, sleepless, angry and ashamed. For reasons he couldn't fully articulate, he felt himself moving away from his dearest friend, the one person in this life who meant more to him than life itself. Maybe that's it, he mused, trying to get comfortable in bed. Maybe he was backing off because he was so dependent. He'd been taught not to be dependent, not to care too deeply. Caring only brought pain; love could only bring pain. Rolling to his other side, he admitted to himself that he loved Blair. He imagined holding Blair, smelling his unique scent, enjoying his muscled shoulders under Jim's hands. He wanted it too much. Nothing good could come of wanting anything this much. 

He was being a jerk, he knew. He should just tell Blair what was wrong and let him figure it out the solution. That's what Blair did: figure out this kind of stuff. Better than anyone he'd ever met, Blair could take a tiny bit of information and put together a solid case. He was a good detective; he could figure this out. 

But Jim knew he wasn't ready to make such a confession to Blair. He couldn't imagine the circumstances under which he would. All he could do, he admitted to himself, was hope that Blair would figure it out on his own. And he hoped he'd figure it out soon. He didn't know how much longer he could go on like this. He was tired of wanting something so much. 

Having that IA asshole in the office all day, pestering Simon and the Major Crimes detectives, didn't help much, either. Jim felt scrutinized. Battered. And being out of sorts, with Blair and with himself, was simply too much. He needed to resolve this problem. He needed Blair to resolve it. 

* * *

Simon was pissed. He didn't consider himself pissed; rather, he conceptualized himself as feeling wronged and thus justifiably concerned. But really, he was pissed. The asshole from IA was over him like white on rice; someone was stealing valuables from the very wealthy and thus from very politically persuasive, which meant the mayor and chief of police were on his back; and now, to put the frosting on the cake, his best detectives seemed to be at odds with each other. 

Nothing overt. No shouting matches in the bullpen, which he'd seen Jim engage in in the bad old days. No absent Blair, which he'd seen when Blair had been a student and could just disappear if they disagreed. No, this was subtle stuff. They didn't roll back and forth between their desks, looking at the other's notes and computer monitors. They didn't engage in the playful banter that Simon simultaneously liked and disliked. They simply worked, which should have pleased Simon but didn't, and that pissed him off, too. 

When Jim had disappeared, to records or a donut run, Simon waved Sandburg into his office. Against his inclination, he shut the door and indicated that Sandburg should sit, who watched Simon suspiciously. Simon sat behind his desk and studied his newest detective with interest. Professionally, he liked the new look of short hair and no earrings, but personally, he missed the new-age-alternative-lifestyle look of the old Blair. They watched each other for nearly a minute before Simon asked, "Well?" 

But Sandburg stared back, authoritative and confident and silent. "Goddammit, Sandburg. What the hell is wrong?" 

Blair smiled slightly, clearly amused at Simon's expense. "Captain. What's wrong with what?" Simon glared at him but remained silent. He knew he'd lose the game, but he had to try. For a few seconds more they sat eyeing each other, and then Simon sighed and turned to pour them both coffee. 

"He's outta the office, Blair. How far away can he hear you?" 

When Simon turned back with a full mug, Blair's eyes were thoughtful. "I'm not sure," he said, accepting the peace offering. "Farther than he'll admit, I think. If you're asking whether or not he can hear us, I think he could if he were focused. But he's probably not paying attention. My heart rate isn't up that catches his attention. As long as I'm calm, he'll be okay." 

Simon shook his head, wondering at what it must be like for Blair, to be monitored so continually. "You can't catch a break, eh?" 

Blair smiled but didn't reply. "What do you want?" 

"You know what I want. What's with you guys?" 

"Well, Jim's a Sentinel; that means he has heightened " 

"Detective Sandburg," Simon growled, enjoying despite himself Blair's pretense. 

"Simon. It's okay, or it will be. It's just. He's a good man, Simon; he takes care of me. I'm not entirely used to someone taking care of me. That's all. We're just finding our way." 

Simon nodded, although he didn't fully understand. He wondered about Jim and Blair's relationship. He'd known Jim a long time, and had known Jim's reputation when he'd been in Vice. As long as whatever that relationship might be didn't interfere with their work, he'd overlook it. But this sounded as thought the relationship were interfering. He wasn't sure what to do. 

Finally, he admitted as much to Blair, watching closely as the other man thought about it. 

"Are you asking if we're lovers?" 

"No!" Simon rolled his eyes. "I'm not asking, and I don't want to know. Don't tell me yes or no, okay? Just tell me if you guys can continue to be partners." 

"Yes. Absolutely. Really, Simon. I'm sorry we've worried you. I'll talk to Jim. Surely all partners have rough patches?" He looked a little concerned; Simon could tell this was a genuine question. 

"Hell, yes, Sandburg. You've seen Rafe and Brown fight like dogs and cats. And Connor fights with everybody. It's just that you and Jim don't. Much." 

"And when we do, it's a doozy." Simon nodded, unsmiling. Yeah. A doozy. Death by drowning; that could be classified as a doozy. Blair sat his nearly-empty mug down. "Thanks for the coffee, Simon. I'll talk to Jim right away. Don't worry about it. I promise I'll let you know when you have to worry." Simon nodded, and watched Blair return to his desk, then roll his chair to Jim's where he started flipping through the papers in the in-basket. A few minutes later, Jim entered Major Crimes and stood just inside the door, watching his partner. Blair looked up and smiled, then stood up and grabbed his jacket. The two men left. 

Simon stared after them, wondering yet again about them. He worried about all his detectives equally, but Jim was also an old friend. Almost family. He wanted this whatever "this" was to work out. He wanted things to be all right. 

* * *

Blair stared out over the water, shivering from the chilly breeze gusting across the small balcony. Jim was still in bed, although probably not asleep; he had trouble sleeping when Blair was up early. Another weight on Blair's shoulders. 

He was still cross with Jim, and with himself for being cross. They really needed to talk. He had to say something; for one thing, he'd promised Simon he would, and Blair liked to keep his promises. It's just he wasn't sure what to say. He was afraid, though, that Jim wouldn't respond honestly. Whatever was going on between them had apparently blocked Jim's ability to speak. 

Well, Blair would have to scare it out of him, somehow. Build up to a fight; that was the usual way to get an answer from him. Ask him flat out what was wrong. Well, that was hardly fair. Blair knew that he'd started it, that Jim's backing away from the casual touches and embraces they'd shared for so many years was a result of Blair's behavior. Cause and effect. Really, he was the one who needed fixing this time. He just didn't know how. 

He heard the glass doors behind him open and felt a rush of warm air as Jim joined him, silently handing him a coffee mug. They stood together while they sipped the coffee, watching the night slowly recede to the milky glow of a deeply-overcast dawn. Jim radiated heat next to him, and a kind of confident friendliness that Blair knew he'd kill for. He'd already died for it. He didn't want to jeopardize this amazing relationship, however difficult and cumbersome it might sometimes be. He turned slightly, to study his friend's profile in the dim light. 

Jim caught his movement and turned as well, so they half faced each other, very close, very intense was the only word Blair could find for the moment. He gulped the last of the coffee and took a deep breath. 

"I'm sorry." 

Jim said nothing, just tilted his head a bit, reminding Blair again of a setter on point, watching Blair closely. Blair knew he was monitoring Blair's heart rate, respiration, probably even the neurons firing in his muscles, maybe across synapses in his brain. No one would ever look at him like this; no one would ever know him like this. He felt a powerful rush of affection for Jim, tinged with pity for the burden his senses imposed on him, and with pride that he, Blair, was Jim's Guide. Maybe it was meant to be. Maybe they were meant to be. 

Blair put his hand on Jim's forearm. "Simon called me into his office last week. He wanted to know what was wrong. I didn't tell him that it was my fault. Which it is. I'm sorry, Jim. I don't want to stop. I want exactly what you want." 

Still Jim remained silent, watching him. Blair felt profoundly understood, and blushed slightly. "You're my best friend," Blair finally said, his voice husky with emotion. Jim nodded. 

"Yeah." Jim slid his arm around Blair's waist and Blair leaned against his muscled length, turning back to watch the light fill the world around them. "It's okay, Blair. No matter what, it'll be okay between us." 

Blair nodded, feeling Jim's robe and the shoulder beneath it bump against his chin. He felt wholly present, in a way he hadn't for some time. "Yeah," Blair agreed. "As long as you know that, too." 

* * *

"Mr. Tansey," Blair greeted the tall man cordially. "I'm Detective Sandburg, and this is my partner, Detective Ellison." 

Tansey's eyes flicked to Jim; they were about the same height, but Tansey was developing a pot belly and clearly hadn't worked out in years. His hair was thinner than Jim's, though worn longer, and his beard streaked with grey. 

"How can I help you, Detective?" 

Blair pulled a list from his inside jacket pocket and said, "Mr. Tansey, your truck was seen at these locations just before a theft. We're wondering if you saw anything suspicious while you were there." 

Tansey studied Blair while Jim studied Tansey. He saw his muscles tense, heard his heart speed, smelt his sweat sour. Tansey nodded slightly and took a deep breath. "Sure. Just a minute." Then he whirled and ran on his long legs toward the rear of the glass shop. 

Blair lunged after him, leaping over a display of miniature window frames but catching it with his toe. Twisting in mid-air, he came down awkwardly but didn't fall and continued sprinting after Tansey. Jim ran right into the downed display case, banging his knee so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He rolled onto his butt and jumped up, wincing, and began following Blair. 

Jim watched his partner disappear before his eyes in a whirlwind crash of milk-white glass that seemed to explode upward around Blair, encircling him like a nimbus of light, and then fall agonizingly slowly with him. Blair's desperate shout followed him down. For one frozen, disbelieving moment, Jim stood still, then he flung himself forward, slipping on the crushed glass, almost following Blair. 

Heedless of any injury to himself, he knelt at the edge, pushing the shards back, trying to understand what had happened. His senses were careening all over the spectrum -- he could hear voices in the street, then nothing; he could smell fish at the harbor, then nothing. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember Blair's relaxation and focusing techniques, but all he wanted was to hear his Guide's voice, his heart, his life. 

He took a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. "I am . . . relaxed," he murmured, and tried again. Then he slowly extended his hearing out and down, keeping his eyes closed, risking zoning, listening for what he most desired. And there, far below, very slow, was Blair's heartbeat. He dropped his head in relief and opened his eyes. 

At first he was confused by the images impacting him. He kept his breathing calm, and let his heartrate slow to match Blair's. Then he piggybacked his sight onto his hearing, as Blair had taught him, and focused on the crumpled figure so very far below. 

He could see Blair clearly now, despite the obscuring dust and dark. He lay on his side, utterly still, arms outstretched to his right. One arm was injured; Jim thought he could hear it swelling and he sensed the heat from the blood pooling there. He right hip, too, was damaged somehow. 

But Blair lay on top of crushed cardboard boxes; he must have landed on them and they had broken his terrible fall. He was unconscious; he was hurt; but he was alive. 

Before Jim forced himself to look away, to start finding some way down, he noticed something else under Blair: another arm. He focused his sight more closely, and realized that Blair had fallen onto Tansey. 

A hand came down onto Jim's back, then another on his shoulder. "Jim, Jim," Simon's voice reached him. 

"He's alive, Simon," Jim said thickly. "Tansey's dead, but Blair's --" He stopped. He couldn't say the words, and Simon knew already. 

"We'll get him out, Jim. Now, step aside. We need to make room for the fire department." 

Reluctantly, slowly, Jim crept back and to one side, always keeping his hearing anchored to the heart that beat below. 

* * *

By the time Blair's unconscious body was finally brought to street level, Jim felt as fragile as the glass the heavy boots of the firemen were crushing in their efforts. He sat quietly on a makeshift chair of pallets, Simon at his side. When the EMTs popped the wheels of the stretcher open and began to push toward the ambulance, Jim stood, a little wobbly, and made his way through the crowd of help to Blair's side. 

Simon made some gesture that halted everyone for a moment. Jim leaned over Blair, listening intently for his heart, lungs, synapses firing, blood vessels dilating. Then he gently lay his hand along Blair's face, studded with small gashes from the fragmented glass he'd flown through. "Oh, sweetheart, " he whispered, but before he could say more, Simon took his elbow and kindly pulled him away. 

"Let's get him to the hospital, Jim, " he said softly. Jim stepped back, and watched his friend being taken away. 

* * *

When Blair opened his eyes, he saw Jim and nothing else. His right hand wouldn't move, so he cautiously lifted his left and opened it. Jim obediently rose from the ugly beige chair he'd crammed himself into and stepped to the hospital bed, leaning slightly over the railing. Hospital bed. He was in a hospital. 

He could barely look at Jim -- the pain on his face distressed Blair so much that he wanted to climb out of the bed and run away. He didn't want anyone ever to hurt for him the way Jim was hurting now. 

"Hey," Blair said, and lifted his hand a bit higher. 

"Hey," Jim mouthed, but no sound emerged. His hands gripped the railing so tightly it rattled, and he made no attempt to take Blair's proffered hand. 

Blair slowly moved his hand across his body until he could rest it on top of one of Jim's. Jim cried out at the touch, as if it burned him. "What is it?" Blair asked urgently. 

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you." 

"Bullshit. You're hurting me by not touching me." Jim's face reflected his anguish and indecision. He remained as he was, trembling. Blair cleared his throat. "Goddammit," he said as fiercely as he could. "Do this for me." 

Jim shook his head slightly, but finally released the railing. With tender care, he took Blair's hand between his own, then bent his head and lay his cheek against it. 

"Oh, god, Blair. I saw you fall." 

"Is that what happened?" 

Jim lifted and turned his head so he could see Blair's face. "You don't remember?" 

"No. Nothing. Nothing since lunch. At that new Mexican restaurant, on Western." 

"Eastern. Blair, that was two days ago." 

"Come here." 

Jim smiled. "I _am_ here, Chief." 

"No, come _here_ ," and Blair pulled his hand away from Jim's and reached for his shoulder. 

"No, Blair, you'll hurt yourself." But Blair seized his sweater, fingers poking through the loose knit, and drew Jim down. 

"You want this. You _need_ this, and so do I." By now, Jim's head was next to Blair's face, and Blair curled his arm around Jim's neck. "Please." 

Jim rested his head more firmly against Blair's, and then his shoulders. He put his hands on Blair's waist. Blair wriggled a little, then they were under him, holding him. "Touch me," he whispered. "Make it stop hurting." Sighing, Jim rubbed Blair's back and sides, his uninjured hip. He ran his hands down Blair's legs, stroking them more firmly, and then back up, over his stomach and chest. Finally, he slipped his hands under Blair's back again, pressing his chest into Blair's. He sighed again, relaxed. 

When he finally lifted his head, Blair was smiling at him. "Why do you fight me on this?" he asked, almost whispering. His left hand was still twined in Jim's sweater; Jim twisted his head and kissed Blair's knuckles. 

* * *

Jim pondered Blair's question as he waited at Blair's bed that night and next morning. When he was bullied into returning to the loft for a shower and some sleep. When he stopped by the PD to report back to Simon. He thought about it the entire three days Blair was in the hospital, and the four he stayed home. By the time Blair returned to work, Jim could think of little else. 

Why did he fight Blair's touches? They healed; they comforted; they grounded. They also terrified him, that someone else had such power over him, that he had _granted_ another person such power. If he didn't resist in some small way, he knew he'd be absorbed by Blair, incorporated into him. 

Or would he? Jim was old enough and honest enough to examine his fears objectively. It was, of course, ridiculous to perceive Blair as some kind of osmotic monster, encapsulating Jim within. Yet that's what his touches felt like: a merging, a synthesis. A snuffing out. 

Jim laughed at that thought, sitting alone in his pickup at a red light, twisting the radio dial looking for a decent song. Yeah, he admitted as the light turned green; I'm an idiot. Especially since I'm the one who believes we're fated to be together. 

But when he saw Sandburg deep in the Tansey report, all Jim's fears rushed back in on him, and he could barely be civil. He knew he was being a sullen asshole, but felt powerless to stop. He knew he needed Blair. 

* * *

Blair watched his partner closely. Jim had been withdrawn and depressed ever since Tansey's death. He knew Jim well enough to recognize his anger was directed at Jim himself, and that his present mood had to do with the collar and not, say, wet towels on the bathroom floor. 

On the fourth day of his return to Major Crimes, even Simon started rolling his eyes at Blair, so he resolved to take steps. As soon as they arrived home, Jim disappeared into the bathroom as he had every night, as if he could scrub away whatever demons were clinging to him. Against his better judgment, Blair ordered pizza; he knew Jim loved it. He had a cold beer waiting for Jim when he emerged from the shower, who took it and nodded his thanks, but immediately climbed the stairs to his bedroom. 

When the pizza arrived, its rich aroma filling the loft drew Jim down again, carrying his empty. Blair rinsed it and put it in the recycling bin and brought Jim another, who stared up at him from the couch. "What are you doing?" he finally asked, his first words in hours. 

"Taking care of you." 

Jim frowned, but fell silent again as Blair brought plates and napkins to the coffee table. When he finally sat, smiling, Jim shook his head and permitted a small smile to escape. "I like getting waited on," he admitted. 

Blair just grinned. "Don't get used to it. I have ulterior motives." 

Around an enormous bite of pizza, Jim asked, "What?" 

Blair held up a finger and finished chewing. "I wanna know what's bugging you." Jim rolled his eyes. "No, don't bullshit me. What's wrong?" 

"It isn't worth it. The pizza, the beer, it isn't worth getting hassled by you." 

"Hey." Blair sat back, genuinely hurt. "Hey, man. Listen. No, park your ass right there." A little surprised, Jim obeyed. "Let's get one thing straight. You don't _have_ problems that I can't help you with. There is nothing you can contain that I can't share." Jim stared at him, and Blair saw that he wanted to be persuaded. "I'm your roommate, your partner, your best friend, your Guide. How many times we gotta go over this? You got a problem. You tell me. I fix it. Those are the rules." 

Jim swallowed. His face had slowly turned red during Blair's lecture and his shoulders slumped. "I, uh, know that," he admitted quietly, and Blair refrained from pumping the air with his fist. "It's just, it's. It's about you, Blair." 

Whoa. 'Blair' again. Always a red flag. But Blair just nodded. The two men sat there a moment and then, on impulse, as if drawn, Blair crossed to where Jim was and sat next to him, knees almost touching. He looked expectantly at Jim, raised his eyebrows, then gently touched Jim's shoulder. "What's wrong?" he asked again. 

Jim sat very still, his face quiet, not reflecting whatever internal struggles he was experiencing. His steady presence comforted Blair, who began softly rubbing Jim's back. Jim leaned into the pressure, and turned his blue eyes onto Blair. A depth of misery and a measure of hope, Blair thought. 

Very softly, Jim told him, "I love you." Blair nodded. 

"I know. I've loved you forever." 

"No, no, Chief, you _don't_ know. I." Jim's face was getting redder. For a long minute there was silence. Then Blair suddenly knew what Jim meant. He stopped rubbing Jim's back for a second, then took gentle hold of Jim's arm and pulled him nearer. 

Looking into his friend's embarrassed face, feeling the heat off his body, the tension in his muscles, Blair said, "I love you, too. And no --" he forestalled Jim's interruption. "I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean. I'm the Guide, remember?" 

Jim stared at him, eyes wider than Blair'd ever seen them. "I don't know what to do," he whispered. 

Blair smiled. "Lucky for you, you got a Guide." Jim smiled at that, too, and Blair put his arms around Jim. "Just like the ritual," he murmured, and Jim put his arms around Blair, desperately, happily, ritually, finally. They held each other, rocking gently; Blair could tell that Jim was near tears, and he felt almost overwhelmed himself. He squeezed harder and said in a choked voice, "What a fucking _relief_." 

Jim laughed softly. "Yeah. I, when I saw you down in that hole with Tansey, I knew I had to tell you, I couldn't not tell you." 

Blair patted his back, but this time it wasn't a signal to part. "I told you there was nothing you could contain that I can't share." Jim nodded against Blair's head, then turned and awkwardly kissed his face, on his cheek near his jaw. Blair tilted his head slightly and met Jim's lips with his own. Jim's lips were dry and a little chapped; they felt thin with tension to Blair, who gently stroked them with his tongue and opened his mouth wider. Jim obediently opened his own mouth and Blair slipped in his tongue, closing his eyes, leaning into Jim's embrace, breathing Jim's breath. Jim made a small moan of pleasure and began to kiss more aggressively, closing his mouth and kissing Blair's lips, then opening again and sucking in his tongue, swaying now, almost vibrating with pleasure. Blair gasped for breath and then returned to the kiss, the best kiss of his life, the kiss he'd forever remember as The Kiss, The Kiss That Changed My Life, The Kiss of My Dreams, the kiss that opened his life and sealed his fate and married him to Jim. 

The Kiss. 

When both men were breathing hard and had pulled away slightly, to stare pop-eyed into each other's faces, Blair discovered the enormous smile on his face matched Jim's. "This is -- incredible," he said, "I love you, man, I adore you, I love you to bits, I will love you forever, I've been waiting for you my whole _life_ , Jim, you're my whole fucking _life_." 

Jim started to laugh. "Did you say your life or your wife?" 

Blair laughed, too, and they collapsed against each other, roaring with laughter. "Both, man. Abso-fucking-lutely _both_." Jim slung an arm around Blair's shoulders and hugged him, kissing his temple. Blair closed his eyes, to stop the tears that threatened again. 

"I want to be your life. Even your wife," Jim whispered into his hair, and Blair moaned with desire, turning his head again to meet Jim's mouth, this time flooded with passion and a desire like nothing he'd ever felt before. They leaned back against the couch, cuddling, stroking, daring to touch each other in lust. 

"Oh, fuck," Blair groaned, and rolled on top of Jim, straddling his thighs, and pushed against his erection against Jim's, who _oofed_ in surprise and pleasure and began thrusting up against Blair while holding him firmly in place, humping him like a table leg, Blair thought briefly, before he succumbed to the buzzing pleasure from the friction and pushed back and down. "Oh, shit, Jim," he clutched Jim's arms and rolled his head forward to rest on Jim's shoulder, biting him through the cotton tee he wore, "Oh, shit," he said again in warning and then the waves of orgasm began to wash through him and he came and came and came, in Jim's arms, on Jim, "Jesus, I'm coming on _Jim_ ," he thought briefly and kissed Jim's sweaty neck because Jim was _clearly_ coming, too, seizing Blair firmly and almost _shaking_ him while shaking himself, and then that too-brief pleasure passed, and they were two men sitting half on top of each other, sweating, shaking, and a little embarrassed. "Fuck," Blair said one last time, and then straightened his back to look at Jim. 

Jim looked debauched. The tension had seeped from his body and been replaced with a heavy-limbed lethargy of sexual repletion. His eyes were almost closed, his mouth a little open, and a fine sheen of perspiration covered his handsome face. He smiled, very slightly, at Blair, then licked his lips. "Um," he began. 

Blair kissed him. "Shhhh," he whispered. "It's okay. That was supposed to happen. If you feel bad about it, I'll kill you." 

Jim laughed, and struggled to sit up a little straighter. "Good. 'Cause I don't wanna feel bad about it." He kissed Blair back on his mouth, firmly and familiarly, as if he had kissed him a million mornings hello and a million evenings goodnight. "We're gonna do this forever, now, right?" 

Blair nodded. "Oh, yeah, starting in like five minutes. Only this time naked and in your bed." 

"Our bed." Blair pursed his lips and nodded again. 

"Heh. I knew you'd say that." They started kissing again, and Blair thought briefly about the pizza, soaking grease into the newspaper on the coffee table, about their beers getting warm, and then decided that pizza and beer would always take second-place to being kissed by Jim Ellison. 

* * *

"That fucker." 

"Yup." 

"That _fucker_!" 

"Yup." 

"Jesus. What a fucker." 

"Simon, I think we've established that fact." Jim tried not to smirk, but Simon's look of outrage directed first at Blair moved immediately to Jim. 

"You think this is funny, Detective?" 

"No, no, sir," Jim assured him. "I agree that you've established he's a fucker." 

Simon sighed and rocked his chair back. He shook his head and said, "I should thank you guys. You did a good job. And Finkelman. I'll send her flowers." 

"You're welcome, Simon," Jim said at the exact same time Sandburg did. "IA is checking into his background right now, and Balducci's being investigated by a couple local reporters," Jim continued. "I'm pretty sure you're in the clear, but we really didn't finish this case up the way I'd like to." 

Simon looked sternly at Jim. "And you're not going to. It isn't a case, and it certainly isn't _your_ case. Let IA and Finkelman handle it. You got IA off my back; you've done enough." 

Blair grinned at Jim, who patted him on the back. "Nice work, Chief," he said, but Simon snorted. 

"Don't you guys have any real cases to work on?" But before they left, Simon called Blair back. 

"Shut the door. Although why I don't know." He peered out the blinds into the bullpen; Jim was already back at his desk. 

"You don't want Jim to hear?" Simon shook his head, then shrugged. Blair said, "Jim, don't listen for a minute, okay?" Then he looked at Simon. "What is it?" 

Simon stared at him. "That'll work?" Blair raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly. "I just wanted to know. What we talked about. Things seem better." 

Blair's smile grew considerably. "Yeah. Really better. Lots better. Beyond better." He looked as if he could go on for some time, so Simon raised his hand to signal stop. 

"I'm not asking a question, Sandburg. Just keep the status quo." Blair's smile got impossibly wider. Simon jerked his head toward the door and his detective obediently got up to go. "Thanks, Sandburg." 

"For what?" 

Simon rolled his eyes. 

* * *

"Shit." Jim woke up fully, completely, eyes wide in the starlit bedroom. Blair sighed heavily, still asleep, and reached for him. Jim put his arms around Blair, and rested his head against his shoulder. He kissed Blair's chest, then cuddled up against him. 

He should get up, he knew. Have some tea or read. Do some of Blair's breathing exercises. But it felt so good in bed. 

Jesus. What a dream. Nightmare. Being chased by people he didn't know, running breathlessly, slogging through sand or mud or peat, something that clung to his feet and tugged him back. And always looking for Blair, for Blair's help, to help Blair. 

He closed his eyes, but they popped open again. He really should get up; he'd wake Blair, and that wasn't right. He kissed him again, and felt a hand stroke his face. 

"Hey," Blair whispered, and Jim tilted his face to see Blair's eyes, sleepily open, and a soft smile curling his full lips. 

"Hey," Jim said, and leaned up to kiss Blair. 

"'S'wrong?" 

"Bad dream. Go back to sleep." 

"No, no." Blair inhaled deeply and struggled into wakefulness. "Ohhh, man." He sighed again and pushed at the pillow beneath his head, then tugged Jim nearer, so he was nearly lying across Blair's chest. "Tell me." Jim stared out the skylight, wondering what to say. Blair gently shook him. "Tell me," he said more firmly. 

"You were gone," Jim blurted, then paused. 

"And?" 

"And? And I wanted you. I missed you. I was looking and looking for you, and there were all these people, and I wanted you to save me and -- " 

"You wanted _me_ to save _you_?" Blair sounded a little shocked, and definitely awake. 

"Yeah. Is that a problem?" 

"No, no. I love it." Blair twined his arms firmly around Jim's chest. "Get up here." And he pushed and bullied Jim until he was lying on top of Blair, looking into his eyes. "Hey," Blair said again. 

"Hey." Jim kissed Blair deeply, sucking Blair's tongue into his mouth, pleasuring Blair. 

"I'm going to fuck you now," Blair said when they broke for air. 

"Okay," Jim murmured, and began kissing him again. Blair's large, strong hands stroked Jim's body, his shoulders, his arms, his back, his buttocks, then slid them back up, pressing firmly into the muscles, soothing the dream's tension away and bringing a different tension to him. 

"This is better," Jim said after a long silence, and nuzzled Blair's throat, beginning a sensuous trek down Blair's body. 

"Mmm-hmmm," Blair agreed, rolling his head back, pushing his body up and forward, in offering to Jim. "Better than what?" 

"Than dreaming." 

"Good. Good." Then he pushed Jim over suddenly, so Jim was on his back and Blair lying on top of him, staring heatedly down at him, love and desire apparent on his face. "What did I say?" Jim was speechless; he spread his legs and swallowed deeply, staring into Blair's eyes. "What do you say?" Blair demanded. 

"Yes," was all Jim could say, "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes." To you, to this night, to this life we've created. "Yes." 

* * *

Epilog 

"Captain . . ." 

"Don't 'captain' me, Jim. I don't wanna hear this. You know I'm right. Look at this report from your doctor. Your blood pressure is dangerously high. I can't have you on the streets anymore; I won't risk it." 

"It's not your decision." The two men stared at each other, then Jim dropped his eyes. "Well, yeah, technically it _is_ your decision. But I hope you'll take what I want into account." 

"Haven't I always? But Jim," the captain shook his head. "You can have any desk job you want. You can beat the shit out of me. But I won't have you stroking out on me. That's _so_ not how I want to spend our golden years." 

Jim had to smile, he always did when Blair acted the captain to him. "What would you say to my retiring?" 

Blair stared at him from across the large desk, his blue eyes wide with surprise. "I think it'd be great. I'd love to have you safely at home, especially now that I'm stuck in this office playing suck-up to city officials and the newspaper. I never thought. What would you do?" 

Jim shrugged. "Be a househusband? Watch tv and eat bonbons?" 

"No, really. You -- I can't see you just sitting around the house. What about teaching at the academy? Or writing a textbook on running an investigation?" 

"You're the writer, Darwin, and the teacher." 

"No, Jim, you're good, you know that. Think about it, okay? If you want to retire, that's fine, but I want to know there's a plan. I don't want to think you'll be sitting at home drinking beer and watching Scottish curling games on ENSP2 while I'm here pushing paper." 

"I'll talk to Taggert, see what he thinks of retirement." Blair nodded, then glanced out the windows into the bullpen. It was just before lunch and the room was mostly empty. He closed the blinds and walked to where Jim sat, then slid into his lap. 

"Captain?" 

"Mmmm," was all Blair said before he kissed Jim, who opened his mouth obediently and tilted his head into the familiar angle and put his arms around Blair's shoulders. 

When they broke off, laughing at each other, Jim shifted and said, "Captain, you're a little heavy for this old guy," and Blair stood, shaking his head. 

"I can't believe I do things like that. After all these years, Jimmy, you still make me crazy, you know?" 

Jim stood and hugged his partner, before opening the blinds again. "Real subtle. Like nobody knows what we do in here." Blair opened his mouth to protest but Jim put a hand on his cheek. "You make me crazy, too. We'll talk tonight." 

Blair shut his mouth and nodded, then watched Jim walk back to his desk, a desk they'd shared for so many years before Simon had retired and the mayor herself had suggested Blair as a replacement. That had been a hard decision, to leave Jim's side, but this was harder. Not to ride in together, not to lunch together daily, not to be able to look up and see Jim or, if he was out, at least his things on the desk: a picture of Jim and Blair fishing. A brass fly reel paperweight given one birthday. The Cop of the Year awards, framed on the wall behind him. 

Blair knew he could retire, too. He wouldn't have a great retirement package this young, but it'd be enough, especially since he and Jim shared everything. Once Blair had started earning a decent salary, he'd carefully saved his money, learning from the example of his whimsical mother, whom he and Jim had ended up supporting and caring for when her arthritis grew too painful for her lifestyle. He loved his mother and never for an instant regretted her presence in his life or what she had taught him about living, but he had also learned from her mistakes. 

He liked the idea. Spending the days reading and writing; he and Jim could write that textbook together. Fishing. Walking the beach. Cooking. Meeting Taggert for poker. Long days without an alarm or siren or any other screeching noise to pierce Jim's senses and startle Blair. They'd done enough, he realized, still watching Jim at his desk. They'd done enough. 

He turned back to his own desk and picked up the phone to call their accountant. This would bear investigating. 

* * *

When the young man in a white medical coat and sneakers entered his room, Jim thought: This kid can't be a doctor. 

"Detective Ellison. I'm Dr. McKay." 

Jim stared at him in disbelief. "Your name tag says McCoy." 

The young man blushed but never hesitated. "Um...yeah. But the correct Gaelic pronunciation of my family name is 'McKay.'" 

If Jim hadn't been so angry and frightened, he would've laughed, Instead, he just asked, "You have the results?" 

The young man looked at him, his blue eyes wide and disarming behind his thick lenses. "Of?" 

"The tests?" 

"Forget the tests. You don't need medicine. You need information." 

"What are you, an intern? Go get the doctor for me, will you, please?" 

"Now just wait a second. Hear me out here." And Jim did, he listened. 

He listened for the rest of his life. 


End file.
